


Come Over Here, Sit Next to Me

by keycchan



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deadpool 2 Spoilers, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Making Shit Up About Everything, Nate Likes Cooking, Slow Burn, Touchy-Feely, Wade Has So Many Issues, also featuring: Wade's Dirty Mind Sometimes, and they were ROOMMATES, background yukio/negasonic at one part, i don't know what else to put in here uhhh, maybe ??????, there's a pool scene. things get blown up. scarf shopping???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 05:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15988877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: Wade and Nate and moments, sprawled across just a little over a year.





	Come Over Here, Sit Next to Me

**Author's Note:**

> warnings, in case you didn't read the tags: **canon typical violence/gore, heavily referenced/direct aftermath of suicide.**

i.

 

They first thing they do after they walk away from the burning wreckage of an orphanage is — they separate, and go home.

Of course, it’d be a  _much_  more heartwarming thing if they all headed back together. Hand in hand, arm in arm, maybe tip to tip in his and Cable’s case (maybe even Colossus? But Vanessa  _said_  —) but, nope. The X-Folks hop back into the fancy jet that’s probably compensating for  _so_  many somethings, Colossus leading the bunch of orphans in one hand and one hefty and happy Russell in the other — god, Wade’ll have to bring  _so_  many tacky gifts the next time he  ~~breaks in~~  visits — and that leaves the rest of the motley crew to find another way back, considering the fact that Dopinder’s totaled cab is, well. You know. Totaled.

Turns out luck extends beyond Them Combat Skillz and punching in lucky numbers on mutie collars — there’s some cars parked near the orphanage that probably belong to one of the white-uniformed perverts they’d just taken out. Domino hotwires it successfully on the first try. Dopinder ends up behind the wheel again, Domino gets shotgun because she fixed the car up, which leaves himself and fullmetal timetraveller in the back. 

You know. The guy who just nuked his only ticket home out of orbit to save Wade’s sorry ass. That one.

 _You wholeass goddamn idiot_ , Wade wants to say.

“Ain’t this just  _cozy_ ,” Wade purrs instead, happily trading away the sick feeling in his stomach with the sweet distraction of leaning all up in Cable’s personal space. “Just you, me, a couple of voyeurs — “

“You guys start getting handsy in the backseat and I swear to god I’ll get Dopinder to turn this car around,” Domino threatens from the front seat.

Wade grins from under the mask, and wiggles his fingers in a wave. Domino rolls her eyes. Cable just grunts, sounding simultaneously done and amused. Wade pretends he doesn’t see Cable thumbing the clean bear at his side.

They drive. Dopinder turns the radio on to some Kesha song ( _the police shut us down, popo shut us down_  —) and Domino rolls her window down to get some fresh air in. Wade doesn’t stop leaning on Cable — because, okay,  _wow_ , the  _muscles_ on _this_ man — and Cable, for the most surprising part, just takes it. Looks out the window and largely ignores the way Wade’s leaning his full weight on his side, jabbering nonsense at Domino and Dopinder and no one in particular. Cable is so  _warm_ ; Domino just turns the radio up.

At some point Domino stops Dopinder at some random street corner even Wade doesn’t recognize. She even does the nice thing of rolling up her window first. Wade  _could_  take shotgun now, but —

Here’s real good. Here’s just fine.

“Is this close to your home, miss Domino?” Dopinder asks before she rolls the window up, “I could drop you closer.”

Domino smiles, shakes her head, “Nah, I’m solid. Got a good feeling about walking from here on out. Take care — and you better not traumatize the cabbie.” The last part is clearly not for Dopinder.

“Aw, not like he hasn’t seen worse before,” Wade coos, “And I wouldn’t do  _anything_  to my honeybunches here. At least not until we get some food. Hey, are you into food fucking? Food sex? Can I put ketchup on your metal tiddie and — “

Domino wisely turns and leaves, and Dopinder keeps the radio turned up while Cable mutters “ _Jesus_.”

Clearly, they’re ungrateful. That’s fine, leave it to Wade to give a  _proper_   ~~apology~~  welcome to their new guest. Besides, saving dozens of orphans plus one Russell, _and_ saving hundreds of future probable-orphans, is hungry work.

“To the nearest McDonalds, my good friend!” Wade instructs cheerfully, “Papa needs a whole lot of fries after that. And grandpa needs something for his blood sugar, the grump. What d’you want, triple cheeseburger? McNuggets? A pickle?”

Cable’s face hardens, the way he does whenever he’s recalling something from his tragically broody grimdark past. “Don’t have McDonalds in the future. Corporation collapsed in on itself after resources went to shit.”

Wade gasps. Maybe just a  _little_  theatrically. “Never had McDonalds! God, the apocalypse sounds like a real shitfest — “

“ — there was senseless anarchy and famine, Wilson — “

“ — you  _have_  to get a big mac. What the fuck have you been eating the whole time you’ve been here, Genos?”

Cable blinks, frowns. “Brought supplies from the future. Rations.”

Wade pulls a face. Doesn’t know if Cable can see it under the mask, frankly doesn’t care. The poor bastard. “Military rations in  _this_  century are already pretty abysmal, I don’t know what kinda shit they kill and throw in there in the future. That’s pathetic, my guy. Buddy. Palpperoni. Friendpatine — that does it, if I have to be the one to introduce you to the  _finer_  things in life, so be it.”

“I don’t need — “

“Shh shh shhhhh, shh shh,” Wade interrupts, slaps a hand over Cable’s mouth, “It’s just what friends do. You’re welcome.”

Cable grabs his hand, and snaps his wrist. Wade only yelps a little, but figures he deserves it.

Wade ends up ordering 69 McNuggets, a triple cheeseburger, a big mac, a whole fuckload of fries, and enough sweet ‘n sour sauce to marinate his whole body in, if he feels like going that way tonight. Cable looks both adorably confused and super repulsed by all the smells. Dopinder gets two whole McNuggets crammed in his mouth as a thank you for the ride, and only  _maybe_  runs over someone’s foot at the distraction.

“Here we are!” Wade cheers when they pull up to Blind Al’s place and Dopinder slams the brakes hard enough that Wade nearly brains himself on the headrest of the passenger seat. Dopinder gets a solid pat on the back for it. Cable doesn’t even thank the man, just cusses under his breath and exits the cab,  _rude_. “Ignore him, my sweet angel puff pastry — you’re the  _best_. Around. And nothing’s ever gonna bring you down.”

Dopinder  _beams_ , like Wade can pull the sun out of his ass. Poor bastard. Talk about poor role models. “Anytime, Mr Pool! If you ever need an ally to quash your foes, I swear on every white, hot sun that burns that I — “

Wade shoves three more nuggets into Dopinder’s open mouth for that. “Mmhm, mmhm. Well, I appreciate everything, don’t die, bye bye now!” Before climbing out and slamming the door shut.

Cable’s already unlocking the door by the time Wade skips up to him. There’s no one home when the creaky thing squeaks open, the house still. Fine by Wade — he can have all the nuggets himself, suits Althea right for skipping out on the post-murder munchy McDonalds marathon. He closes the door with a buttcheck while Cable unslings all that overcompensating (but also, unfairly cool) weaponry off that dad bod and sits on the couch. Holds up that sweet robo forearm, the one that’s still covered in dirt and ash, the one where his time travel device is still in smouldering pieces —

Cable gets all of two seconds into that before Wade decides that life would be better spent doing anything else but that, and he tips into Cable’s lap with a “Timber!”

Ooh, Cable’s face is just the _best_ when it’s in that state of barely restrained murder.

“Ah ah ah, big guy, I’m feeding you  _and_  homing you tonight, by right I get at least some custody of these delicious thighs.” Wade tsks, waving a fry in Cable’s face.

Miraculously, Cable  _doesn’t_  stab him up the backdoor. Just frowns harder, and lets Wade do what he wants. Huh.

 _Looks like a guy gets softer after he napalms the last of his way home to family for your sake_ , Wade thinks, and ignores the vicious stab somewhere in his chest at the thought of it. The worse tendril of anger, twining it.

“This isn’t even your home.” Cable points out, teeth only a little gritted as Wade makes himself at home on the muscular lapmeat, “Quit squirming!”

“Bossy, bossy. And anyway, I’m pretty much Al’s roommate, I’ve got my own room here and everything, so it  _so_  counts as my home too.” Wade argues, rolling up his mask enough to show his mouth so he can cram some fries in. Cable rolls his eyes hard enough it seems that he  _wants_  to join Al on the blind boat — at least until Wade digs up the big mac and nudges the box to his cheek.

“The fuck?”

“Fucking only  _after_  meal,” Wade grins through a mouthful of deep fried potato goodness, “Big mac first. C’mon, Judge Dredd, don’t pretend like killing sickos in weird white sex suits doesn’t make you a  _little_  bit hungry! It won’t kill you. Probably. Unless you’re one of the many millions who eat a ton of these and possibly clog up your heart. But who am I to stop you, right? There are worse ways to go than cardiovascular disease, I promise. Like whatever rhymes with  _melf-immolation_.”

“Jesus,” Cable mutters, snatching the box and opening it up with one hand, “You people don’t know how good you have it. Food like this could be worth more than a home in the future. Don’t even have  _beef_ , or cheese, or — “

“Oh, god,  _enough_  with the whole grimdark future talk, I get it, shit sucks and you guys ate dirt and tears for supper, fine! Too bad you’re stuck in glorious twentygayteen now, so shut your yap and eat your food, manpain senior.”

Cable glowers at him, but doesn’t move to punch his trachea in, so Wade counts it as a personally victory —  _especially_  when Cable picks up the burger like it’s about to explode in his face. It’s hilarious watching him try; Wade grins like the bastard he is and crams more fries in his mouth. Enjoys the show: ‘Grandpa’s First McDonalds.’

What he expects: Cable to bite down, realize the all holiness of the gluttonous clown, and then chow down like it’ll disappear tomorrow.

What he expects, alternately: Cable to spit it out because his future palate’s too fucked up, and Wade will have to eat it off the floor (waste not, want not —)

What he doesn’t expect: Cable to start crying.

Okay. No. Not  _crying_ , per se — Cable just takes the slowest bite known to man, chews, and then his eyes honest-to-god tear up. It’s enough to make Wade freeze, just for a hot second.

“Just  _that good_ , huh Roboduff?” Wade grins weakly after a beat, as Cable wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, like his own head isn’t screaming  _shit, shit, shit shit shit shitshitshit how’d I fuck up this time_  —

Cable just snorts like nothing’s happened, and it makes Wade relax a little, even as Cable wipes the moisture onto Wade’s suit leg. “Just. Little bit overwhelming. Things don’t — they don’t taste anything like this, in the future.”

“Yeah, yeah, because everything in the future is a steaming shitpit where all your food is like, rocks and piss and off-brand cereal — “

“ — Nothing has this much... taste. Was a luxury to give my family anything that tasted even a little like any of this. Took me months of saving to afford candy for my little girl.” Cable continues, like he hasn’t heard Wade at all. Stares at the big mac like it holds the secret to the future, voice in that soft, low rumble that it always get when he talks about his family. The one he’s left behind, forever. “She’d have loved this.”

The silence goes on, one beat, two beats. Too long. Wade attributes the hurt in his chest to the bullet that nearly went through him today — even though it didn’t, thanks to Cable — and definitely not the look in Cable’s eyes. Definitely not the bear nudged against Wade’s thigh that’s clean and soft and possibly the last fucking thing his (his?) Cable will see of his daughter, of his family.

 _Jesus_ , big macs suddenly got super depressing. Wade moves to get up — there’s suddenly a lot more shit in the air that he’s not prepped to deal with, not with the abrupt heartburn he swears he has, not with how his neck suddenly thirsts for a good loop of rope, and he’s moving to get up, off the warm solid lap under him, “Well, might as well go through with my plan to slather this model alligator-skin bod with some sweet ‘n sour sauce. Lemme up big guy, don’t get any of your sad wank on Al’s sofa, she’s already mad that I pissed on it before — “

And then Cable straight up uses his telekinesis cheater powers to move Wade’s fistful of fries to Cable’s own mouth, where he  _absolutely_  steals it out of Wade’s palm. Chews, swallows, smirks like the smug bastard he is.

“Not bad,” Cable says, with that heavy eye contact he’s so fucking good at, making Wade freeze in place, “Way too fucking salty though.”

“Nah, old timer,  _you’re_  way too fucking salty,” Wade fires back without thinking, feels a  _grin_  hesitantly start without thinking, “And who said you could have my fries, huh? Already gave you a big mac for free, because I’m a magnanimous goddamn saint. More than that and sharing starts to feel way too communist for me. Get your own extra-extra-extra large fries, white Edward Elric.”

He doesn’t think about relaxing back into Cable’s lap, except he does. And Cable doesn’t say thank you for any of it, except he lets Wade nestle in like a puppy and get comfy and does nothing but grunt for it. Wade tentatively goes back to cramming fries by the fistfuls into his maw, wondering if he’s going to make Cable regret his decision any second now  — Cable eats like the burger’s the last thing he’s ever gonna eat; slowly, like if he doesn’t take his time he won’t know what it’ll taste like ever again.

This is all so goddamn sad. It makes Wade want to laugh.

He talks, though, instead. Because it’s easier, because he’s better at it. Better to just keep cramming fries into his mouth and not think about the world-changing shit they’ve just done today, not think about the fact Cable will never see his family again because of  _Wade_ , for some stupid reason. Better to talk incessantly about whatever bullshit comes to his brain first than dwell on how pissed off he is that Cable did it in the first place, and the guilt that’s making his gut its bitch.

Of course, Cable doesn’t get the memo on the ‘no big emotional talk policy’ that goes unspoken. The bastard.

“If I do this right,” Cable says halfway through his burger,  _rudely_  interrupting Wade’s rant about why Lagoona Blue is clearly,  _clearly_  better than Aquaman, “Hope’ll get to eat as much of this as she wants.”

Wade blinks. Cable goes back to eating, like he didn’t just say something so painfully cheesy and heartrending and Wade, Wade just —

“So instead of death by flambéeing, you  _want_  to get her future-killed by, what... Diabetes? A heart attack? Some dad you are.” Wade says, before his brain can catch up with his mouth.  _Shit_.

Cable pauses. Turns to  _stare_  at Wade, robo-eye burning through him — before he swallows his mouthful and smacks Wade upside the head with his TO arm and Wade almost chokes on his fries in surprise.

“Christ, you’re a cunt.” Cable mumbles, brows furrowed like always — but he goes back to eating like this is par for the course, and Wade — 

Wade just laughs, laughs and laughs ‘til his eyes water, cause fuck him stupid but they’re so messed up. Shit is so _messed up_. God.

He can’t wait to introduce Cable to KFC.

 

ii.

 

Nate starts paying Sister Margaret’s visits almost immediately after everything’s done. Saving the world seems solid in theory, but technicalities always get in the way. Like blending in, like needing  _money_ , present-day paper money and not the creds from the future. It still staggers him how green paper is part of how the world fucks itself over into a coma, but he knows he’ll need it now if he wants to get any of his promises kept.

It’s easier than he thought. The whimpering manchild who runs the place from before is still piss-terrified of Nate — a good thing, because it means he only needs to give the guy a look and a muttered  _jobs, now,_  before he started laying down the options. Plenty of terribly shitty people, with big, big bounties on their heads.

So he takes the jobs and he goes. He knows Wilson’s taking them too. Sometimes they find themselves on a job together; most of the time, they don’t even complain.

They earn enough in the next three weeks to cover what most people in this century make in a  _year_. Within a month, Nate finds a decent place to stay — close enough to Sister Margaret’s and with a landlord that doesn’t ask questions about where the money is from — and drags Wilson with him. It’s a bit of a pisshole, but compared to places Nate’s been in before, it’s a downright luxury. Nothing a little work can’t fix. And as much as the blind woman had seemed to be used to their company and happy to have Nate around, he’s not so much of a jackass that he can’t feel sympathy for the fact that she has to hear Wilson having “unicorn time” every other night.

They move in together, a lot out of convenience, and a little because... Well. No real reason to stay away. Wilson’s fucking annoying almost all of the time, but it’s... a tolerable annoying. A predictable annoying. Annoying enough that it’s become commonplace —  _comforting_ , in the way TV static gets when you leave it in the background while you do everything else. The man chatters non-stop about inane bullshit, but it’s not necessarily bad. Has a nice voice, even.

Nate gets used to Wilson, and Wilson gets used to Nate, and everyone else is making bets on who’ll throw the other out first in a murderous rampage. But Nate’s got practiced patience when he’s not on a mission, when he’s not blinded by grief and rage and Wilson is... oddly alright, most days. More than, even.

They fix the apartment up. Or —  _Nate_  fixes it up anyway, because Wilson’s still a jackass who won’t lift a finger for any actual menial labour, but Nate only complains a grand total of once and both times he never meant anything by it. He likes the labour, if he were honest. Gives him something productive to do with his hands, his time, that isn’t violence and bloodshed. It’s not something he does often. And he doesn’t trust Wilson with building bookshelves unless he wants them with the nails sticking outwards anyway.

Besides. It’s  _Wilson_  who pays rent first, and while Nate gets to work making the shithole feel a little more like a liveable space, it’s Wilson who makes it feel  _homely_. Nate’s always been a thoroughbred, stereotypical war-born soldier — never had time to understand the sentimental values of decoration and  _things_  (at least until what happened, with Firefist, with Aliya, with Hope and the goddamned  _teddy bear_  —)

But Wilson comes home from jobs carrying knick-knacks like he’s spent his entire cheque on them. Atrocious fridge magnets, hula girls that dance in the sun, snowglobes. A frankly hideous throwrug even by Nate’s standards, a TV that Wilson  _definitely_  stole from some poor fucker he just got paid to kill, some comic books called Marvel that Nate doesn’t have half an interest in (but looks pretty nice on the floating bookshelves Nate installs above the TV.)

So. That’s about it. Nate doesn’t know the exact moment they turn out this way, they just... do. They’ve got their little two bedroom home that Nate furnishes and Wilson decorates. They go out on jobs, sometimes separately, sometimes together, rake in enough cash that it doesn’t become a problem. Wilson introduces Nate to some inane pop culture bullshit every other night. Nate stops fighting it after the first. They get a fridge, and it becomes a mess after three days with Wilson trying to shove random bullshit inside and Nate trying to fit, you know,  _actual_  food in. They reach a compromise with the beer — that gets one whole shelf to itself that they don’t touch ‘til night comes and they settle in front of the TV for Wilson to chatter endlessly about whatever’s going on and Nate just listens.

Speaking of the fridge. Speaking of the TV. Speaking of food.

He’s still figuring out the food in this world. He’s a soldier, good at adjusting, but now that he’s not on a mission to destroy a kid (a decision that wears on his mind every day, makes him sick with guilt if he thinks too hard) he has a little more time to just step back, and breathe, and take it all in. The new world. The technology that seems outdated and ancient, but all the resources Nate’s never seen in his own lifetime. There’s grass by sidewalks, trees and birds and —

Food. God, there’s so much food. People this century have no fucking idea how lucky they have it, how  _good_  they’ve got it. His chest aches with bitter anger everytime he passes by a garbage can and sees overflowing leftovers — in his time, people would kill to have even that much to eat for a day. He would know. He  _has_  killed, and for much, much less. It makes him even sicker to know that in other parts of the world, even in this current time, people  _are_  starving, but no one’s giving them a chance. It’s the first symptoms of the sociocultural disease that nearly wipes out the earth, a century later.

But like Wilson said. He’s stuck in this year now, and he’s not going to achieve anything by being nothing but angry and bitter about it. Definitely not gonna help anything by restraining himself in any fucked-up form of a martyr complex. Won’t do anyone any good. He’ll reserve his anger and spite for the field, save his bitter rage for the actual  _mission_  of making sure the world doesn’t collapse in on its own bullshit.

Everything else? He takes a step back and reigns himself in. Enjoys what he can, while he can, and hope his efforts make sure the rest of the future generations can enjoy it too. So that Hope, if,  _when_  she’s reborn — she’ll have all of this. He’ll leave the world better for her.

He picks up cooking, in the meantime. Personally goes to visit the farmers’ market every other day to pick out the freshest ingredients, and then comes home to make something out of them. It’s a new experience every time — finding out what certain things are, what tastes like what, what goes where. The internet in this century is ridiculously slow, but it works enough for him to look up recipes online, how-to videos. The days where he doesn’t have to be anywhere killing idiots and saving a little part of the world, he resigns himself to the kitchen and experiments.

Like now. Like today. He rubs the herbs over the slabs of meat — god, Aliya would never believe him if he told her just how much  _meat_  was available in this century  — and lets them cook. Rubs more garlic butter over them as they sizzle in the pan. The smell alone makes Nate’s stomach rumble angrily — but he doesn’t rush this, can’t rush this. The perfect steak takes perfect timing. And there’s nothing wrong in a little delayed gratification.

He hears footsteps long before he hears the front door get kicked open, and he doesn’t know how to feel about the fact he doesn’t even flinch, completely unsurprised, by Wilson’s entry.

“Hey honey, I’m home!” Comes a familiar voice, and the slamming of a door. “You have no idea how much fun that last job was, you absolutely missed out. Do you know what happens when you stuff a grenade up someone’s ass and throw em? I’ll let you guess. Actually, no, lemme show you, I absolutely took a couple selfies, and —   _oooh_ , hold on. Is that garlic?”

“Dinner,” Nate says, doesn’t even look up from the sizzling meat and is more than happy to ignore everything else Wilson says.

More footsteps, and now Wilson’s closer. “Those aren’t gushers. It’s Wednesday! Wednesday’s are gusher days.”

“ _Gushers_  aren’t food, dumbass. Definitely not dinner,” Nate replies, flipping the meat over, “If you touch me, I’m going to make you swallow this fork sideways and spit it out your ass.”

The hands he sees creeping around his sides abruptly stop halfway, and then retract. It makes him snort. And then there’s a bloodied ass hauling itself up to sit on the counter next to the stove, and he rolls his eyes. Figures. Wilson doesn’t seem to understand the fucking basics of personal space — or at least the common sense not to sit next to an active fucking stove. (It’ll be a little bit of a revelation, later tonight, when Nate realizes that he doesn’t mind. )

“Holy matrimony, Batman, you’re really taking the whole domestic future-soldier housewife thing to a new level,” Wilson comments, kicking his legs like a toddler —  _eugh_ , no, different analogy, that one brings back incredibly uncomfortable memories — and looking over the pan. Takes a deep, obnoxious inhale that Nate isn’t even sure he can smell through the mask. “Ohhhh, yeah. Steak dinner. All you’re missing now is the apron.  _Just_  the apron.”

“If it’ll make you shut up.” Nate says and doesn’t mean as he finally clicks off the stove and puts the meat on the plates to rest. “Get the fuck off the counter, Wilson, I’m not cleaning that shit up.”

“Aw, you  _just_  handled raw meat, you lovable walking vibrator. What’s a little more blood, huh?” Wilson sing-songs, and then definitely smears more bloodied buttprints onto the counter just to tick Nate off. It should be concerning how little Nate is actually annoyed by it. “It’s not even my blood! I’m concerned about how unconcerned you are about my wellbeing. I thought we were friends. Chimichanga chums. Bestest bangin’ buddies, even if we haven’t gotten to the banging part yet. Which we should. Just saying. The fans are waiting.”

“You’re still cleaning up after yourself or I’ll start breaking ribs until you do.” Nate picks up a knife, slices off a piece of the meat after it’s rested enough. Takes a bite for himself, and then slices off another piece. Holds it up, and finally turns to Wilson, fork held up to the man’s face. “Take off your mask and open your mouth.”

He can  _see_  Wilson’s shit-eating grin, beneath the mask. “Now  _that’s_  what I’m talkin’ about, my bangin’ — “

“ _Taste,_ ” Nate growls, and Wilson shuts up, peels up the mask halfway, and then takes a bite of the steak.

The moan Wilson gives out is obscene. Dramatic, even, except he still has the fork in his mouth and seems to like it enough that he lathes the fork with his tongue and —

“Oh, my  _god_ , that’s so fucking good. What the fuck? Born and bred a soldier but no one told me  _anything_  about being a domestic  _dream_.” Wilson groans, when Nate plucks the fork out of his mouth. “Thought you didn’t _have_ any this in your world!”

“It’s called the internet, Wilson. TV. Books.” Nate deadpans, even as he feels the quirk betraying the corner of his lips. “You could learn.”

“And I could  _probably_  stop breaking into Weasel’s house every fifth day of the month to sneak one of my dismembered toes under his mattress while he sleeps, but you don’t see  _me_  doing that now do you?” Wilson  _tsks_.

Nate feels his face contort in disgust. “Christ, Wilson.”

“Oh, no, wait ‘til it’s been there long enough for him to smell it. Then he’s gonna throw the mattress off and see where that rank stonch is coming from, and he’s gonna be so — mmf!”

There’s probably a lot Wilson would say about Nate jamming his open mouth full of meat, so Nate does them both a favour and keeps another forkful ready for when Wilson’s done chewing and swallowing that last bite. Feeds him the next one. And then the next one. Wilson just goes with it — at some point he just opens his mouth after he swallows his bite, like a child, and it makes Nate snort and his gut feel oddly warm.

It takes about halfway through the plate before Nate thinks that they’d probably be a bit more normal if they just ate at the goddamn dinner table he painstakingly assembled just last week and let Wilson feed himself like the grownass adult he is. And then he mentally handwaves the thought off, because when the hell have they ever been normal people, and if shoving forkfuls of steak into Wilson’s mouth makes him shut up, well, all the better.

This isn’t home exactly, for Nate. He doesn’t have that choice anymore. Home was —  _is_ , a long way off. Home was Aliya. Home was Hope. And they’re gone, gone in a way that Nate will never get back no matter how much he slides through time, if he ever could ever try to again. Nate’s gonna have to live with the fact he’ll never be able to go back.

But this, here, though. In this cramped apartment with a mouthy mercenary who doesn’t know how to shut up for his own good — it feels a lot like it  _could_  be home again. Just maybe.

 

iii.

 

Weasel’s really starting to warm up to Cable. No,  _really_ , not even getting nervous boners anymore! Absolutely worth celebrating.

Sure, the real celebration is the fact that him and Bryan Fury 2.0 here scored big on a really fun mission —  _hello_ , cruise ship assassinations — but the fact is! The fact  _is_ , Weasel only stumbles once when he’s serving Cable his blowjob, and you know what? Wade is proud of that. Good on his buddy. Maybe one day Cable’ll sneeze and Weasel will learn to not shit himself a little.

Baby steps though, kind of like the ones he’d taken after Juggernaut pulled him apart like a grilled cheese sandwich. Weasel looks more than a little relieved when he puts the drink in front of Cable, who looks like someone pissed up his nose in his sleep, and gets back to serving up drinks for the rest of Sister Margaret’s. Drinks are on them tonight — or rather, on Cable, or  _rather_ , on Cable because Wade said so, because he’s figured that maybe everyone’s sphincters won’t be so clenched up and trigger-twitchy if Terminator here bought ‘em over with good old fashioned booze.

And it’s working! Because Wade is a genius. No one even notices that the guy whose tab all this is on is looking super broody at the bar. Could be because Wade didn’t actually ask his permission to yell out the free drinks, could be because the whole cruise ship gig had a lot of fire and explosions and they may have gotten off a little crispier than expected (Wade in particular roasting like a peking duck after he’d accidentally conked himself out with a pipe through his skull. Whoops. At least Ness had time to wave before he got punched out of the afterlife. He’ll have to remake most of his suit from scratch.)

“Fun fact, Gray Fox — drinks? You’re supposed to drink ‘em.” Wade throws out there, leaning against the bar besides Cable. “C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t want a blowjob. Blowjobs are  _so good_. God knows I love blowjobs. Weasel gives the best blowjobs. You should probably give that blowjob a try, maybe it’ll give a little sparkle to your buzzkill filter, just a sip of that blowjob  — “

“Quit saying blowjob, jackass,” Cable snaps wearily, eyes closed. Voice goes a little quieter. “Should’ve just gone straight home.”

Wade rolls his eyes. Doesn’t care that Cable probably can’t see it under the mask. “Again,  _buzzkill!_  We did good today, if you didn’t notice. We’re  _celebrating_. Man, I shouldn’t have bothered. This is what I get for  _trying_  to be nice — the cold shoulder! Zero appreciation!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake — “ and Cable finally gives in and takes the shot.  _Immediately_  makes the face of someone who just popped in fifteen packets of pop rocks in one go. Wade would know. “ _Fuck_ , that’s too goddamn sweet — “

“I  _am_  the sweetest, thank you for noticing,” Wade chirps, narrowly avoids the shot glass thrown at his head and crashing into the wall. “God! Fine! Jesus, talk about ungrateful. Weasel, a glass of your dourest, sourest, pants-shittingly depressing whiskey. And vodka for me. Whatever’s more likely to burn the rest of my skin off.”

Weasel sighs raggedly, even as Wade notices the way Cable tenses at that last statement.  _Huh_. “I don’t know why I keep serving you guys. You keep fucking me over.”

And yet he gives them the drinks anyway. Fool. “Because you love us. Psychologically, spiritually, sexually.” Wade says sagely, snatching the bottle for himself and taking the whiskey for Cable, putting it down. “Also, we bring in the big bux.”

“The more I talk to you the more I regret my life decisions.” Weasel murmurs sadly, “I should’ve finished vet school. I should’ve adopted a pony.”

Wade just snorts. Turns back to Cable, who — downs the whole glass in one go, wow.

“Slow down ther, T-800, you don’t have my healing factor. Don’t gotta deepthroat the goods like they’re gonna up and run.” Wade notes, raising a brow Cable can’t see. “God, what did you have for breakfast this morning, Carnation Instant Bitch? I thought our little corrupt politician-slash-human-trafficker cruiseship BBQ would turn your frown upside down. What with the whole ‘save the world’ schtick. Saving hundreds of people not good enough for you?”

Cable’s to fist clenches there. Just a little. Frowns deeper into his empty glass. “It was. Fine.”

“ _Fine_? Just  _fine_? Uh, don’t know what kinda lucrative gigs you had in your sadsack dystopian future, but if I’m not wrong, we just got paid a  _whole_  ton of numbers for setting a ship on fire and murdelurdering all the evil jackasses on board without getting traced.” Wade scoffs,  _unbelievable_ , “I’d call that a pretty decisive victory!”

Cable frowns harder. Still doesn’t look at Wade. Just barely cracks the glass in his hand with his flesh arm, his voice just barely audible in the din of the bar when he speaks up again.

“Sure,” Cable says, jaw muscles tight, “But I’ve had enough of my people and fires in the same place.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Well. Now Wade just feels like a jackass. And not even the good kind to watch on TV.

Cable at least doesn’t bring it up a second time, just staring moodily into the middle space while Wade stares at him, winces internally, guilt twisting tight enough inside him that its starting to wrench because, okay, yeah, Wade doesn’t like to think he’s the brightest cookie in the shed, but he still wants to believe he’s got like. Basic perception. Basic  _math_. One and one equals two. Bodies roasting on an open fire and Cable equals big sads. 

Wade swallows hard. Cable’s face is twisted and hardened, pained and badly restrained, gaze a million miles away.  _Shit, shit shit shit_.

Fine. Fine. Okay.

Wade signals for another whiskey refill from Weasel, and then snatches the whole bottle out of Weasel’s hand when he comes by. Blows a kiss that Weasel gags at, and then refills Cable’s glass.

 _Think, you stupid motherfucker, he already gave up his chance on his entire life to save yours, you could at least make up for rubbing his face in it_.

In the end, all Wade can come up with is this:

“Hey,” he says, sidling up on the seat besides Cable, facing the other direction and leaning on his elbows, “This place not doing it for you? I know a nice restaurant on the moon we can hit.”

Cable finally,  _finally_  looks up for once this evening. Looks incredibly confused.  _Good_. Hopelessly perplexed is a way better look than existential mourning.

“What?”

“I said, is this place not doing it for y — “

“I heard what you said, shitstain,” Cable grunts, “You’re not making any sense. What the fuck kinda question is that?”

Wade just grins.

“It’s not a half bad place, though it could be better! Food’s great, but there’s no atmosphere.”

A long stretch of silence. One beat, two beats. Cable  _stares_ , and then turns back to his glass, and Wade’s  _this_  close to throwing his hands up in defeat when Cable’s shoulders start shaking, just the littlest bit.

For all that Wade’s been through, his eyebrows nearly rip off his face when he realizes that Cable is  _laughing_.

“Jesus,” Cable says, eyes closed and mouth quirked into a smile that makes Wade’s stomach flush warm, shoulder’s shaking just a little between quiet chuckles, “You’re an idiot.”

Wade doesn’t even realize he’s grinning ‘til his cheeks ache. “I knew it. I knew it! You’re a sucker for dad jokes! God, you’re so corny. I should’ve known. You’re so old that your funny bone’s dust. I bet you like puns.”

Cable snorts, side-eyeing him, though his mouth is quirked in that tiny uptick way that makes Wade really think he’s not mad about any of this, like, at all. Makes Wade actually spin around on his chair, leaning in, nudged shoulder to shoulder.

“I’m not discussing this with you, Wilson.”

“Aw, why not? Too afraid of facing these  _pun_ ishingly  _pun_ ctuated  _pun_ chlines? I’ve got a  _pun_ chant for  _pun_ fortunately  _pun_ stoppable jokes. Japes! Just an a _pun_ dance of them, absolutely  _pun_ limited, they’re  _pun_ damental to me as a person and I’d appreciate a little  _pun_ derstanding!” Wade sing-songs, leaning in  _real_  close. “Better get ready to use up your  _pun_ sion on shutting me up, cabes, or I’m gonna make things supremely  _pun_ comfortable.”

Cable’s leaning his forehead against the back of his metal hand, propped on the countertop, shoulders shaking with silent chuckles. It’s as close to full-blown laughter as Soldier 76 here can get. There are  _laugh_  lines ‘round his eyes, crinkling up with it, and it unleashes a wholeass hurricane of butterflies in Wade’s gut, makes him smile like the idiot he absolutely is.

“That is....” Cable says, slow, the corner of those baby-soft lips still quirked even as the laughter dies down, “... A  _pun_ derstatement.”

 _Oh my god. Ohhhhhhh my god_.

“No way.  _No_  way. Holy shit!” Wade exclaims, halfway jumping out of his chair because  _ohhhhh my god_ , “You made a funny! You! You made a funny!”

Cable elbows him hard enough in the arm that it goes numb for a moment, says “Shut the fuck up, dipshit.” with absolutely no conviction.

Wade just continues  _laughing_ , eyes wide in disbelief because this day cannot  _possibly_  be any better. “You did. You so did. Angsty Robocop just made a funny! Fuck, this is the best — god, I could sleep with you  _right now_.”

Cable’s eyes flicker to him as he pours himself another drink, snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” Wade says, solemn, placing a hand over his heart. Leans in close again, and then whispers, sensually, 

“I want you to  _pun_ etrate me tonight.”

Cable chokes on whiskey. Wade laughs so hard he cries, and then laughs harder when Cable smacks him upside the head and calls him an asshat, which Wade might’ve considered taking seriously if the man wasn’t laughing himself, in quiet breaths. If didn’t have that little amused-happy quirk on the corners of his lips, caught somewhere between a smirk and a smile, his hardened face soft and creased ‘round the eyes. A good look. A  _great_  look. (Wade may just start working a little harder, if he can keep that look around more often.)

The night goes on just like that, Wade pressed warm against Cable’s shoulder, feeling it shake with quiet laughter over stupid bullshit until the bar closes for the night and Weasel boots them out. He keeps up the jabber and light chatter all the way home, Cable looking like he might just be  _grateful_ , and the memories of bright flames and charred human remains are gone, if at least for now.

 

iv.

 

Nate’s halfway up the stairs to their apartment when he hears the gunshot. Just one quick loud  _bang_ , and then silence.

Nate frowns. Adjusts the groceries he has balanced in one hand, and continues walking up the stairs — a pace or two faster, but not much more than that. He doesn’t hear any followup gunshots, or the sound of anything breaking, even if he strains his hearing and reaches out with his telepathy. There’s just silence that gets back to him, which means he knows exactly what happened. There’s no rush. It wouldn’t help.

He unlocks the door. Shuts it as he takes off his boots, walks to the kitchen, puts the groceries on the table. Heads to Wilson’s room, and into the unlocked bathroom, and sees the body he knew he’d find.

It’s not the first time. The first time was a rude awakening — Nate coming home from a three-day job to find Wilson and a noose and a kicked over chair. Nate’d been tired enough that he forgot about Wade’s healing factor — had felt something  _cold_  settle into his system that made him sick and a familiar, clawing ache in his stomach, and it was only after Nate’d cut the rope down and Wilson started gasping air back in ten seconds later that Nate had remembered and he remembered to breathe himself.

Wilson wouldn’t promise never to do it again, and Nate didn’t feel it was his right to tell the man what to do. He’s grown. Gone through his own shit. Has a healing factor. Hell, it isn’t even if Nate’s any better — if Graymalkin had more charges, god knows he’d keep going back and forward, again and again, ironing out history in some poor attempt for absolution.

Besides. Better to let Wilson do this in the house, where it wouldn’t shock any other upstanding New York citizen. Better to let Wilson kill himself where none of Wade’s thousands of enemies could track the body and use it.

Today’s not quite so gory. Better than the last time, with Wilson and both his handguns and his temples and the bedroom wall. The fine mist was a bitch to clean off the walls, until Wilson lost patience and just tore down the wallpaper.

This time, Nate finds Wilson in the bathtub. Regular sweats and a long sleeved tee but the mask is on, which lets Nate know it was already... Bad, when the day started. Wilson’s body is curled up, almost foetal, if it weren’t for the heavy shotgun his scarred hands are cradling. The top and back of Wilson’s head is gore and gray matter and the part of the bathtub behind it is damaged and misted with blood. The parts of the mask around his eyes are damp with something else.

Nate doesn’t comment. Doesn’t mutter the curse that comes to his head, doesn’t ponder on the heavy feeling that starts in his chest and weighs down to his gut. Just lets it be, and walks forward, and moves to lift Wilson’s limp body out of the tub. Doesn’t take off the mask — it’s not his place, it never is and never will be — but does use a little bit of his TK to get one of the handtowels he’d bought when they first moved in. Brings both body and towel over to Wilson’s bed, where he folds the towel over and lays it on a pillow before he puts Wilson down over it. Takes the blanket, tucks the cooling body in.

Then he goes back to the bathroom and gets to cleaning. It’s easier, thanks to the fact it’s in the bathtub. Barely takes Nate a couple of minutes to wash the blood and waste out. By the time he comes back out, Wilson’s still gone.

Seeing the cold body tucked into the too-large king-sized bed is... Well. Maybe before this, Nate’d feel sorry for the poor fucker, but that’s not quite it. And  _sad_  doesn’t wholly grasp it either.

Either way. It’s enough that Nate moves Wilson’s body a little further, makes room for himself so he can slide in. Sits down, leaning against the headboard, legs straightened and crossed as he settles besides Wilson and pops open some holoscreens on his infected arm. There’s a whole lot that needs to be attended to if Nate even stands a chance of making the future look less like the skullfuck it is. Getting on top of the recent underground happenings is a big part of it. Good thing about being here in the 21st century — shit’s so old, it barely takes Nate any time at all to crack into the systems he has to to keep himself updated.

Besides. He doesn’t know how long Wilson’ll take to regenerate brain matter. The rate of healing varies too much. It’s quicker in battle, slower at home, and Nate doesn’t like to think about how slow it gets when Wilson is actively suicidal. The man’s taken impalement through the head with only marginal slowing down during fights, but the two pistols during the last attempt had knocked him out cold for five whole minutes. God knows how long a shotgun will take. Could be two more minutes, could be twenty.

So Nate settles down to wait, and surfs the darker parts of the internet.

He’s mentally laying down the plan for taking down an international black market event happening right here in new york in a couple weeks time when Wilson finally comes back to him. It’s advertised as an “Animal Appreciation Expo” that’s set to do massive trades of ivory, tiger skins, illegal endangered animal trades. The X-Men won’t get their hands dirty, and neither will the other surface ‘superheroes’ that’d been so glorified in the future, the local law enforcement could only dampen the efforts at best  — so it’ll be up to Nate and whoever he can scrounge up to help to take the whole thing down and put an end to it.

He’s just about to consider texting Domino to ask her for her assistance — her fortunate balance of probability will definitely keep shit under control — when he hears Wade groan.

“Oh, god,” Wilson whinges, “And people whine about  _migraines_.”

“Not a lot of people survive shotguns point blank to the head as a gauge.” Nate points out, because no one ever said he was a great at sugarcoating.

Wilson  _laughs_ at that. Bitter enough that even Nate winces. “Lucky fuckin’ them. Grass is always greener on the other side, huh Cabesy? I’ll gladly trade off this fucked up healing factor for a good ol’ case of solid permadeath.  _Puh-leeze_.”

Nate doesn’t know how to respond to that. Doesn’t know if there even  _is_  a good response to that. So he doesn’t respond to it. Instead, he just keeps the screens up, sends that text to Domino, tells Wilson “Cabesy is a stupid nickname.”

“It’s about as stupid as Cable.” Wilson chimes, putting a forearm over his masked eyes, still lying down and seemingly unwilling to move.

“My real name is Nathan, jackass.”

“Nathan Jackass? You’re named after one of the best movie franchises ever made? Can I just call you jackass from now on? Can — “

Nate shoots him a glare. “You call me that and I’ll stitch your goddamn mouth shut so you’ll never call anyone anything again.”

“Wow. Rude.” Wilson scoffs, as the hand over his eyes move, upwards, to his forehead and behind and he groans, again. “Motherfuck, speaking of stitches. I’m gonna have to remake this mask — there’s no mending this.”

Nate grunts. Turns back to the diagrams on his screens. “Oughta think of that before you take a shotgun to the skull.”

Wilson laughs louder, and now it’s gone past bitter and more into something close to hysterical. “God! I fucking know, right! Not like it’s even fucking worth it — I keep seeing her less and less these days. Everything keeps looking like, like — like when you just wake up and rub your eyes and everything’s fuzzy ‘round the edges except it’s  _her_ , and everytime I go back the less time we got, the more she looks like some fucked up daydream, and then she has the  _gall_  to tell me  _it’s time to move on_  and  _I’ll be there when it’s your turn but I gotta go_  and  _don’t die for me, live for me_  like this is some bullshit eat pray love crap instead of the dark comedy it is — “

Nate frowns at that, looks over, “Wade — “

“ — and she said  _there’ll be a time for us_  and what if there isn’t? What if the time we had was all we got, what if she’s gotta go because she  _knows_  I’ll never make it over, because she knows I’m not good enough, she was the  _only_  chance I ever had at being a  _loved_  and,” Wilson barges on, ignores Nate, voice thick and warbling and hysterically bitter, “and I know that’s  _super fucking selfish_  because she deserves to move on and fuck Elvis and  _be happy_  but I miss her  _so fucking much_  and I’m gonna see her less and less until she’s gone forever and living fucking  _hurts —_ ”

It ends there. Stops as fast as the onslaught came, and Nate is left frozen, staring, as Wilson chokes back a sob on the last word and turns on his side, goes foetal, like he did in the bathtub. Facing Nate, but curled up so tight that he can’t see his face. Like if he does it enough, goes smaller, he’ll be able to keep going until he disappears.

Nate doesn’t know what to say. Abruptly hates himself a little bit for it. Aliya used to call him  _emotionally constipated,_  as if she didn’t deflect more than he did, though she was at least better with dealing with other people’s emotions. If not by comfort, then at least by being funny. Cheering people up with crude jokes and overdone dramatics. Nate’s only way of dealing with anything had just been charging forward and hoping it’d wear off with time.

In a situation like this, he’s helpless. It’s not a feeling he particularly likes.

Still. What’s he supposed to say? It’s not like  _he’s_  got any point of reference. Sure, they’re both terminal and they both have dead families, but it’s different. Vastly. Nate doesn’t have the privilege of a healing factor, or the apparent window into the afterlife it gives. He doesn’t get to see Aliya or hope again,  _his_  Aliya or Hope, because in the timeline he’s just made, they’re bound to be different. As will he, when he’s reborn. No,  _his_  Aliya and Hope are gone — he’s a remnant of a dead timeline and a dead world and his best friend and daughter are gone in a way he knows he’ll never get back.

But in a way, he’s grateful. He’s done his mourning — is  _still_  doing his mourning, now that things have slowed down and he’s not fuelled by pure rage. Still questions his decisions, and the new timeline, and whether anything he’s done was for naught, a spur of the moment decision that ruined everything. Whether it was worth it.

But at least he  _is_  mourning. Wilson isn’t. Wilson’s caught in denial, a wound picked over and over instead of left to heal because he keeps offing himself to meet his girl and it’s not good for him. Blessing and a curse.

As much as Nate hates to say it,  _knows_  he doesn’t have the right to say it, maybe it’s good that this ‘Ness is moving on. Letting Wilson heal, in his own fucked up way. In Nate’s opinion, it’s enough of a comfort to know that there is a world beyond, if Wilson is right and not just delusional. Maybe Nate’ll see Aliya again one day. Maybe he’ll get to see Hope.  _His_  Hope. And Wilson will get to see his girl again.

But that’s a long time away from now, for the both of them. And nothing is ever certain. For now, they have to do what they can with what they have. Living with their decisions.

And Nate decides not to move, even when Wilson’s sobbing gets heavy, even when he starts beating his temple with his fist. He just reaches over and holds it, the shaking arm against his palm.

“If you wanna fuck up that mask, we’ve got a garbage disposal. Don’t gotta do that.” Nate says simply. Feels the tense wrist he’s holding go still, and then limp, and Nate lets it go.

“You’re a fucking jackass, you know that? If you don’t like the costume, you’re gonna  _hate_  what’s underneath, so be grateful.” Wilson replies, voice wet.

Still too bitter and tinged with self loathing for Nate’s tastes. He shrugs and turns back to the screen. Feigns indifference. “Never had a problem with it before, handsome. Just don’t get how your mask moves with your eyes.”

“CGI magic, buddy. Or technology whatever, if we want viable lore.” Wilson replies, tone moving to something more amused now, though his tone is still exhausted. “Superhero costumes! They’re magical. Or supervillain. Super anti-hero? I’d say supermutant, but a) I have no idea if I classify properly as a mutant and c) I might accidentally summon Todd Howard, which may  _just_  be worse than Thanos.”

Nate has no idea any of what Nate just said. It’s a good sign. He’s coming back to himself.

“You just skipped ‘b)’, dumbass.” Nate replies instead.

Wilson looks up, the eyes on the mask somehow rising in fake surprise. “There’s a  _bee_?” Wilson asks, voice wavering in mock horror.

Nate frowns at him. “Yes, there’s a B in the alphabet, how — you’re fucking with me again.”

Wilson snorts. “It’s a Vine reference, you uncultured heathen! God. No more cooking shows for  _you_ , I’m setting tonight aside for Taco Bell and one of those two hour RIP Vine compilations. Just you, me, Crunchwrap Supremes and YouTube.”

Nate scrunches his nose. “The fuck is a Crunchwrap?”

Wilson just  _laughs_. Sure, it’s laughing  _at_  him, but it’s the best sound Nate’s heard today. And if it’s still a little too wet, a little too bruised and bitter — they can work on that. Nate can work on that. Maybe someday he’ll find better words, find a way to say  _she wasn’t your only chance_  and  _she said there’s time, you ought to trust her_  without Wilson,  _Wade_ , putting it down with his self hating bullshit.

Someday. Someday. For now, Nate is content to argue half-heartedly with Wade over something he knows neither of them actually give a shit about, if just to hear Wade’s voice, alive and living.

 

v.

 

So. Turns out, once Cable’s not busy turning grief over a lost wife and child into homicidal time travel-assisted rage, he’s got a soft heart. An ooey, gooey chocolate centre.

A huge, throbbing,  _pulsing_  need to apparently be a  _self sacrificing bastard_.

“Wade, detonate it!” Cable  _roars_  over the comms, “We’re running out of time!”

Yes, yeah, sure, right. Because Wade can’t forget that this laboratory is just  _filled_  with hundreds of  _thousands_  of records and samples of some very, very deadly diseases. Plans. These fuckers may not have started live experiments on smallpox 2000 yet, but they sure as shit were about to get the party started by the time Wade and Cable had crashed the fiesta. Scientists really  _are_  nerds who can’t fight for shit, but they’re also super resourceful and handy and  _very_  protective of their trees. Protective enough to secure the facility and everything inside with a security system that could make the ice box look like a takeout container. Protective enough to have a lockdown measure heavy enough that Peach Trees would wet themselves. Talk about territorial pissing.

Really,  _really_  unfortunate that Wade’s favourite man named after wire is experiencing this firsthand on the inside.

“No, no no no, fuck that, I’m getting you out — “ Wade says, voice higher and reedier than he likes and half a year ago he wouldn’t give a crap but now — 

Cable  _snarls_. “We don’t have fucking  _time,_ Wilson!”

“But you’re still — “

“Goddamn it — I’ll be fine! Just fucking detonate or I’ll punch a goddamn charge myself!”

 _That_  makes Wade freeze, because knowing Cable, he’s not lying. Motherfucker probably  _would_  straight up punch an explosive charge and blow the whole building up. And yeah, sure, he’s got a hot to arm that’s already proven impenetrable to bullets and sliding down a  _wholeass building_  but Wade’s not about to start a Mythbusters episode in testing it out with a full fucking building stuffed to the teeth with future-bombs.

Fucking Cable, hanging back and being thorough and wiping all those stupid fucking files and getting himself trapped like a jackass. Fucking  _Wade_ , letting himself get caught up in fighting off robots that he didn’t even realize. And then goddamn half-off Terminator had the  _nerve_  to throw the detonator at him before the door shut fully and yelled at him to run. The remote did a whole slow-mo movie arc and everything.  _Just_  missed being crushed by the door, with Wade having slid between the narrowing gaps to the outside right after. Super cinematic. HBO would probably pay for a shot like that.

“Nathan Summers you cockamamie asswipe, if you don’t survive this I’m gonna shit on your grave — “

“ _WADE_!”

 _Fuck! Fine!_  And Wade think he’s been through more than enough explosions to know what to expect, but he still jams his eyes shut when he presses the metaphorical big red button and the whole thing goes up in  _flames_. He gets thrown back hard enough that he gets impaled on a jutting boulder, damn near cracks his skull open. Swears he sees Vanessa again for all of three seconds, milky-soft around the edges and looking  _gorgeous_  and amused and waving before he gets punched back out to life and jolts himself off of the rock, gasping, hearing his organs go  _splet._

Doesn’t matter. It’s fine. He’ll be fine in a couple minutes. Cable, though, fuck fuck fuck,  _Nate_  —

“Nate!” Wade yells, scooping up his innards and shoving them inside himself, holding his front and back awkwardly while things patch up, “ _NATE_!”

No answer. Just the not-so-good ol’ desert winds and the ringing in his ears that usually accompany shit going up in flames hard enough to give Michael Bay a  _definite_  erection, wherever the fuck in the world he is. The building where they were just in is a hot, smoking mess now, more than Wade even is. At least there’s one positive here now — whatever those genocidal eggheads had stored in there is  _definitely_  destroyed now. Nothing could survive that.

 _Except Cable. Except Cable. Motherfucker had_ better _survive that_.

He staggers forward, feeling his meatsack knit up. Goes as far as even shoving up half his mask and smearing blood across his mouth just so it doesn’t muffle his next call of “ _NATE!!”_

Still nothing. That’s fine. Just dandy! It’s not like they’ve got maybe ten minutes at most before reinforcements arrive to gun them down to a nice pâté or anything. And Wade like to think he’s the definition of devil-may-care, so he’s  _definitely_  not panicking, not giving in to the cold spike going up his gut and his spine and making him run faster through the rubble and debris, not thinking about  _Vanessa, ‘Ness, if he’s there with you when they gun me down I’m gonna be so fucking pissed, please, not again_  —

His voice cracks raw at his next ragged “ _NATE_!!”, but it’s not necessary, because half a moment later he hears the sound of rubble moving, and Wade nearly impales himself a second time over broken cement and piping to run to it.

Sure enough, Wade sees the flicker of a familiar orange field go down, the glimmer of starlight on his robo-arm. Wade vaults across a crumbled block of cement and steel to get there just in time as the orange forcefield flickers off and the hefty slab of concrete it was holding up almost crushes Cable. Wade gets there and — yeah, okay,  _fuck_ , this is heavy — manages to heave it off of the guy.  _Up and at ‘em_.

Cable grunts from where he’s lying. Looks a bit charred at the edges, bruises that’ll paint him more yellow ‘n purple than Barney the Dinosaur, what  _definitely_  looks to be a busted ankle, but he’s still breathing. Still  _alive_. Safe.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Wade breaths, and his knees go just a little bit weak with relief. “You absolute motherfucker.”

“Stealing my lines,” Cable groans, tries to get up. His arms are shaking.

Wade moves forward to help him before he can even think. “I think I fucking deserve to at this point. What was that?! Fucking self-sacrificey bullshit — I thought you finally had enough of that in comicverse!”

Cable squints at him, looking frustratedly confused as always.  _Better than dead_. “What’re you goin’ on about — “

Wade’s about to open his mouth to reply when he abruptly stops. And. Okay, his brain’s pretty much playing tricks on him every day since he’s turned into this fleshy healing avocado, but he  _swears_  he can hear something coming in the distance. Some _things_. What sounds a fuckload like a helicopter, and without even thinking he grabs Cable’s to arm and slings it around his shoulders, hauls Cable up even as Cable bites back a groan of pain at the abrupt movement.

“We settle this  _later_ ,” Wade huffs, adjusting the weight because Cable’s both shorter  _and_  a bit of a beefcake, “C’mon, big guy, we gotta move before they turn us to swiss cheese.”

Cable, to his credit, doesn’t even mouth back. Of course. Perfect soldier — he takes to the command in a way that reminds Wade of himself in the special forces days, and does his best to pull his own weight while Wade navigates them out of the rubble and to their car. Even throws Wade the keys that’ve miraculously survived that shit fiesta, and hops into shotgun wordlessly.

Wade doesn’t say a word. Just starts the engine, takes off the brakes and slams his foot down on the pedal so hard the tires kick up dust as they speed off.

By a miracle they make it to the next town without getting caught or shot at. Cable starts getting quiet in the front seat and Wade doesn’t really know how the whole future super-soldier thing works, but it’s safe enough to assume that concussions are pretty universal, so by the time they pull up to the safehouse, Wade makes it his god-given duty to shriek out the Demi Lovato song on radio.

“God almighty, shut the fuck up.” Cable growls wearily as Wade parks the car, graciously taking up three spaces.

“No can do, my pajama party palpperoni!” Wade singsongs as he cuts the music and the engine off, “I’m trying to do my  _gracious_  duty of keeping you from dying.”

Cable sighs. “Kind of wish I did now.”

Wade lets the half-assed insult boing-fwip off of him, alongside the cold feeling in his gut at the  _what if_  scenarios brewing in his head, humming as he slams his door shut and skips over to Cable’s side. “You know, in some cultures they might call you an ingrate. Me? I just think you’re an old, uncultured coot who has no appreciation for good, modern music. And probably needs that ankle iced. Give your arm, Dingus Khan.”

“This music is ancient for me, dick for brains.” Cable grunts, but does sling his arm over Wade as he shuts the door. Hobbles along like the good injured super-soldier he is.

The safehouse is as safehouse-y as safehouses go, the room is even nice! Furnished, smells only vaguely of sweat and piss and an unflushed toilet, and there’s a nice view of the desert from out the smudged window. 

Wade  _gasps._

“Oh my god.  _Oh_   _my god_. It’s the ‘there’s only one bed’ trope.”

As a pretty solid nod to how long he’s been here and gotten used to Wade’s particular brand of horseshit, Nate just looks tiredly up at him as he unlatches himself from Wade and falls to sit on said bed. “What?”

Wade gestures, like  _duh_. “There’s only one bed! A classic trope! And now I offer to lie on the floor and you go  _nooo_  and you offer to lie on the floor and I go  _nooo_  and then we’re forced to share the mattress together, steamy, sexy, _sensual_ — “

“Just got blown to hell and back during the last fight. ‘m not taking the floor. Up to you if you wanna join me up here.” Nate cuts through wearily, like the buzzkill he is. “Not like this is the first time we’ve done this. It’s not a big deal.”

Ughhhhhh _hhhhh_. “Way to kill some dreams.” Wade sighs, stretches, long and loud and unabashedly to make up for how cold that side of his body feels with the absence.

Nate has the nerve to smirk. “Could kill ‘em harder by taking the floor.”

“Oh fuck no. Not like this bed is any better, but I’m like 99.999% sure someone like, died in this safehouse, and if I lie on the floor I’m gonna be haunted out my ass. Also, ants.” Wade handwaves, kicking the last of his footwear off into... some part of the room, falling back onto the bed to lie down with an unfortunately sturdy  _flomp_. “Ow, fuck! What’s this bed made of, chunky concrete and industrial springs??”

“Far as I know, no one’s used this place in five years. Doubt the mattress has been changed in longer.” Nate says, putting his boots neatly at the side of the bed, and then removing his scarf and weapons to put on the bedside counter. “Slept through worse. Slept  _in_  worse. Figured you did the same — you were in special forces, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, sure, but just because I’ve been through worse doesn’t mean I can’t want better. Complaining is good for the soul.” Wade sniffs, shuffling up on the bed and trying to make himself comfy. Nate just rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment.

And it’s not like it matters. Wade has a feeling he won’t be sleeping tonight anyway.  _Someone_  has to keep an ear out for pissed off, well-armed eggheads that don’t like having their super-secret-ultra-defended lab place ‘sploded. He’s got enough leftover adrenaline in his system that he feels a little like a chihuahua that hasn’t peed in three days.

Cable pauses from where he’s taking off his boots, eyes him with a look that looks a lot like something ( _fond_ , it’s  _fond_  —), but then winces in pain right before Wade can think about what it means.

“Oh- _ho_  boy, that’s not pretty.” Wade comments, sitting up. That is, looking at Cable’s ankle. Boy howdy. “that’s extra- _eemly_  sprained. Can I poke it?”

Cable has the  _gall_  to ignore him, grimaces when he tries to move the ankle. “Shit. Didn’t even bring a medkit.”

“Aw, fret not, convenience stores and I are best pals, and there happens to be one  _right_  down the street. A couple of streets. Some streets? Give or take.” Wade points out, grinning, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the wrong direction. “I’ll be a good boyscout and get some bandages for you! Maybe even an aspirin.  _Definitely_  those corn chips that make you look like you have witch fingers. Try not to die before I get back?”

The last statement wasn’t meant to be a question, but it comes out that way, and something nice and fuzzy kind of grows in Wade’s chest when Cable just snorts, the corner of his lips twitching upwards as he says “Yeah, fine.”

It’s a quick trip. They do have bandages (huzzah!), and painkillers, but more  _importantly_  they have soda and those witch-finger corn chips and ice cream sandwiches  _and_  slushies. The cashier looked only a little bit drop-dead exhausted when Wade has scattered the cash salt-bae style onto the counter. Great customer service, by his standards.

He’s balancing all this and simultaneously trying to sing  _Freeze Your Brain_  (because situationally appropriate songs are his schtick) and inhale his slushie by the time he unceremoniously kicks the door open and nearly falls on his ass, because the door unlocks by itself. As it is, he manages to catch his balance before he spills everything. Spooky lil’ magic trick, the door thing, for anyone else except Wade because he knows there’s a fucking telekinetic mutant on his motel bed.

“You’d better have the bandages somewhere underneath all that crap,” says said telekinetic mutant, who is now also shirtless and scooted up on the mattress, back pillowed while he tries to ice his ankle. Huh.

“Calm down, discount Vriska, it’s right here. Catch!” Wade says, throwing the roll of yellow bandages at Cable before he even finishes his sentence. Cable catches it, of course. Perfect motherfucker. “How’d you even hobble down to get ice?”

“Telekinesis, genius. The fridge works.” Cable replies shortly, trying not to shift his ankle when he moves and failing. “Fuck.”

The man is clearly weary, the brittle streetlight just drawing the lines in clearer contrasts on his face, reflects dully off of the metal of his infected side, gnarled skin at the edges. Covered in dried grime and sweat and desert sand and dirt and ash, bruises smattered across flesh, that ridiculous salt-n-pepper cut starting to get messy, it by all means should scream  _unattractive_.

It really doesn’t explain why Wade’s voice goes unintentionally soft, when he puts all the junk food onto the rickety desk by the wall and goes “Give me that, you ridiculous hobbling disaster.”

“I know how to do this.” Nate says, even though he doesn’t fight it when Wade takes the bandages from him.

“Oh, I’m sure you do, I’m just trying to get a couple more patches on my girl guides sash though, you know? Helping senior citizens-slash-future-soldiers, yadda yadda. Who reads the guidebooks anyway?” Wade says casually, pulling up the only chair in the room to sit at the foot if the bed. “Now lie  _down_ , C3PO, and hand me that mouldy pillow.”

Cable’s brows furrow, but he’s got the good sense not to argue with the man in the red suit, and tosses the pillow over. Wade catches it easily, hums as he not-too-gently lifts Cable’s leg and shoves the pillow underneath. To his credit, Cable doesn’t even grunt — just huffs a pained breath, and then settles down on the other pillow that looks possibly lumpier than Wade’s face. Amazing. That’s, like, one high fucking standard to reach.

He’s done this so many times that it feels like as easy as breathing now. Holds Cable’s busted ankle up at a 90 degree angle, starts unrolling the bandage where the toes meet the foot. Wraps it taut, round the ball, circling the arch, etcetera, etcetera, and by the time he’s done, Cable’s foot looks hilariously like someone just skinned Tweety Bird. It makes Wade grin, slapping the foot and going “All done!”

Cable doesn’t seem to find it as funny, jolting and going “ _Christ_!”

“Naw, just Wade. I’m no healer, and contrary to popular belief, I only go commando some of the time.” Wade says innocently, snorts when Cable glowers at him. “You deserved that anyway for pulling that stupid shit earlier.”

“What, opening the door for you?” Cable growls.

Wade takes the rest of his mask off just to roll his eyes. “Yes, American Cyborg: Steel Warrior, I’m mad at you for opening a door.”

Cable’s look goes deadpan. “Sarcasm won’t help with me, Wade.”

“Evidently! I’m pissed about what happened back there! The lab!” Wade finally says, exasperated. “What  _was_  that, huh? You could’ve left those computers as they were, you know,  _pretty_  sure the blast destroyed everything in there.”

“Except me.” Cable notes.

Wade rolls his eyes a second time. Ow. If he keeps doing this he’ll be joining Blind Al in more ways than one. “Yeah, sure, except you.  _Barely_. Still a stupid thing to do though.”

Cable has the nerve to look completely unaffected. Just shrugs, settles back down. “Had to make sure. The computers were heavy archives, had information on viruses and bacteria that could wipe out half the earth’s population. Spanish flu by the power of ten, smallpox immune to immunizations. Couldn’t risk any of it being preserved in any way. Was safer to wipe it manually.”

And there it is. More of that... Noble soldier shit. Wade sighs, harsh and exaggerated, getting off his chair to fall on the bedspace besides Cable. “Then you should’ve let me do it. Between the two of us, I’ve got better chances surviving explosions. Tried and fucking tested. Don’t think even you future folk figure out how to regrow limbs like I do.”

“I  _have_  been through worse, dumbass. Whole future’s a shitstorm. Get shot at and almost blown up every other day.” Cable points out. “It’s not a big deal.”

Oh,  _ha_. Yeah. Sure. No big deal at all. Of  _course_  perfect future soldier does this on the regular. Because outside of homicidal grief, Cable just  _has_  to be some noble martyr. Just has to save the world, one job at a time, like the worst messiah to ever come. He just has to be noble, and patient, and stubborn, and always, always putting the world before himself, people before his wants,  _Wade_  before seeing his unfridged  _family_  and —

Wade’s always known that Nate is a better man than he is, and he’s never been against that. Fuck, he  _admires_  that, even. But if it means more of seeing Nate nearly fucking die, he’s not so sure he’s a fan anymore.

(If Wade dies again one of these days and sees Cable where Vanessa used to be, Wade’s going to officially  _lose his shit_.)

“Whatever, Inspector Gadget. Don’t care about your reasons. Don’t pull that shit again.” Wade spits out, frustration and irritation and something he can’t find the name for gnawing at his chest. Makes him punch Cable in the side. “I’m not willing to put out partnership vacancy fliers if you kick the dust. Dopinder is an angel and too soft, Weasel’s just battle fodder, Domino would just steal my thunder. So you better stick around, wiseguy. If you die, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Cable stares at him, in a way that feels like he suddenly  _gets_  the message underneath all this, whatever the fuck that is. Wade feels abruptly tired. Decides not to budge, keeps lying there, leaves his loosened fist pressed against Cable’s side. Feels the warmth of his bio-metallic flesh. The way it shifts when he breathes.  _Still alive_.

“Fine.” Cable finally says. “not planning on leaving anytime soon anyway. Still too much shit to clean up. Don’t trust  _you_  to do it.”

Wade feels the grin split his face before he can stop it. “Aw, that’s the spirit. Also? Don’t be jealous, because you  _know_  I could do it. I’m just trying to share the spotlight, because I’m a saint that way.”

Cable  _snorts_ , and thunks the back of his hand against Wade’s temple in some half-smack, mostly-tap. Leaves it there. “If you’re a saint, not surprised most people start turning to atheism.”

Wade winks. “You’d be surprised, I’m a miracle man. Come into my bedroom, I’ll make you scream  _oh god, oh god!_ ”

Cable nearly chokes on his spit. Shakes, and shakes, with silent laughter.

 

vi.

 

“Wade, get them out of here!” Nate yells, punching one of the armed men across the room before he could start shooting again.

“What does it  _look_  like I’m doing, Mechagodzilla?!” Wade yells right back, and seals the deal by cutting the man’s head off.

He hears gasps of horror from somewhere behind him, but he can’t spare the attention to look right now. Too busy taking gunfire, taking out those aiming to kill him right back, and they have nothing on his training but numbers  _do_  count. Nothing he can’t handle though. He was expecting a non-insignificant number of guards when he got here. It’s a non-insignificant mission. 

Yet another underground experimentation laboratory, focused again on mutants, though less on suppressing the gene and more of trying to suck out or duplicate the powers somehow out of other mutants, and force it onto regular kids. There is a disgusting amount of people of all ages inside, particularly children, in various states of battered and bruised and glazed-over in the eyes by the time Nate and Wade had arrived. Half of them were mutants and the other half ordinary, none of which deserved to be here. What Nate had managed to steal off the database with his to arm made him sicker —  a number of these children were taken by force, ripped away from families, sometimes leaving no families behind.

Nate had been pissed, disgustedly angry — but Wade,  _Wade_  had snarled, gone so rigid and coiled up that the first guard they met got his body sliced neatly in half down the middle.

 _Don’t know why we keep being saddled with the kids with booboos_ , Wade had said, happy tone laced with cyanide,  _but it sure as shit says something when we’re better babysitters than these sick fucks, huh?_  

Nate couldn’t agree more then. Can’t agree more  _now_ , as Wade hurries to punch in the codes to release the rest of everyone from behind their glass cases. Doesn’t turn to see it happen, too busy deflecting bullets and putting the attention on himself, and from the skirts of his vision he sees some of the older captives  — the adults and teenagers — try to fight back, some being gunned down in the efforts. He doesn’t let up. Keeps pushing through the waves, and trusts Wade to bring the others to safety. What the others want to do is their choice, so long as it doesn’t endanger anyone else or fucks up the plan.

Three more guards come up, more experienced, shoot Nate in his infected arm. Behind him he hears Wade go, “So, any of you kind, upstanding citizens know where the nearest map is? Possibly to the nearest fire exit?”

Nate surges forward, punches a guy so hard in the throat he sees the windpipe collapse. Good. Somewhere behind him he hears someone reply, “I know how to get out, I have the cell closest to the door, I know the way out.”

More guards emerge. More of the mutant captives come surging to help take them out, and even though some get taken down, it makes the hard work easier. He hears Wade say brightly, “This way then, children!”

“Go!” Nate yells at the mutant captives who’re still fighting, “Leave them, just go!”

Some don’t listen, too clouded by blind rage, justified anger from being treated like fucking abused lab mice, eager to get their revenge. Some of them are already dead. Some of them  _do_  turn to him though, and he yells louder, “ _Go_!!”

They finally nod, look at him gratefully in the eye and then scramble while Nate runs forward to try and lock down the door before more reinforcements arrive. He doesn’t hear Wade, though — but he assumes the man’s just done what he’s been told (for once in his fucking life) and escorted the others out. Good. The sooner everyone’s evacuated, the sooner Nate can blow this hellhole into oblivion. Some places are worth saving — this isn’t one of them.

Between himself and the other mutants, they eliminate every guard in the room, the last one just about to charge Nate like an idiot when he gets stopped by a blade sailing across the room and landing square in the temple.

“That wasn’t necessary.” Nate remarks, even as he feels the smirk tugging at his mouth.

Wade just whistles through his mask as he skips over, removing the blade with a wet  _squelch_. “Oh, you sweet summer child.  _Summers_  child. I make it a point to be extra as fuck in all things that I do.”

Nate  _snorts_ , reloading his gun, watching the other mutants start heading for the exit as he and Wade fall into a fast step. It’s remarkably easy, these days. “Sure. When’s that gonna apply to actually doing your share of the chores?”

“I said  _in all things I do_. I do not  _do_  chores.” Wade says primly. “And don’t be so ungrateful, electric grandpa, I’m doing you a  _favour_  giving you something to do at home so you’re not some freeloader. You’re welcome, by the by.”

“We take turns spotting the rent, dumbass. I’m not a freeloader.”

“Yeah, but what about  _emotionally_? Don’t you wanna feel included at home? God, the things I do for you.” Wade sighs, exaggerated, pulling out what looks like  _candy_  from... God knows where. “You low on blood sugar? Is that why you’re so cranky? Eat this, Nate-o potato, it’s strawberry, and you are  _so_  very welcome that I’m prepared.”

Nate stares. “Where the fuck did you even keep that?”

Wade grins, under the mask. “Do you really want to know? I — “ and then Wade abruptly stops.

 _That_  makes Nate stop too, a couple steps ahead, frowning. “Wade, what — “

Wade waves his hand in Nate’s face in a way that would’ve definitely gotten it broken eight or so months ago. “Shhh! Shh! Shut up! Listen!”

Nate scowls, slaps the hand away, but does what Wade asks. Keeps his mouth shut and listens, long and hard.

And then he hears it. A child,  _crying_.

“... Three cells down, to our right.” Nate says gruffly, after he reaches out telepathically and hears nothing but  _imscaredimscaredimscared._

Wade’s already running off to the cell, and Nate lets it go, right on his heels.

The cell is unlocked, just like all the others, and it almost  _looks_  empty if you only glance at it. But closer inspection and an open ear leads them right to what they were hearing: some scrawny kid of indeterminate gender, bruised and battered with burn scars on their wrists, curled up and sobbing next to the only piece of ‘furniture’ in the starkly over-cleaned chrome cell — the toilet.

Nate’s heart clenches involuntarily as his mind whispers  _hope_ , and he takes slow steps towards the child. “Hey — “

The child looks up at Nate with wide brown eyes wet with tears and whimpers in  _fear_ , scrambles back against the toilet like they could disappear if they tried hard enough, and it makes Nate swallow, harsh. Remembers when Russell looked at him that way. (Sometimes he still can’t believe it these days, after it’s all over — just how close he’d been to becoming an irredeemable asshole, wanting to murder a  _child_ , over a timeline he’d known was fucked either way. He didn’t, of course, but it still burns shame right through him sometimes. Hurts, most days, but it humbles him all the same.)

A hand on his arm that jolts him, and Wade walks in. “Easy there, white Victor Stone. As much as  _I_  personally dig your whole autobot arm and grocery scanner eye, it  _may_  be scaring off junior here! Mind keeping cover?”

Ah. Right. That — that does make sense. Nate takes the instruction, nods, and steps back outside, gun loaded and ready. They should be fine, having cleared most of this place, but Nate’s learnt the hard way not to take it at face value.

As with most things Wade-related, he’s already on it. Nate watches from the corner of his eye, Wade walking across the cell to the shaking kid before stopping a comfortable distance away, and then crouching down in a squat. 

“Psst. Hey, kiddo,” Wade stage whispers, “Don’t worry, robo-guy’s not gonna hurt you. We’re only here to hurt the bad guys. Uh. Worse guys.”

The kid’s eyes frantically move past Wade to look at the bodies outside the cell. Seems to be caught between how they feel, judging by how they look back at Wade after with fear still in their eyes, still not speaking. Damn it.

“Wade,” Nate warns, because he could just grab the kid and run, because getting out  _alive_  is the priority and comfort can come later, outside, after everyone’s accounted for and Nate can shut this place down  — 

Wade doesn’t let him have it, angrily  _shhh_!!Ing him again before turning back to the kid. “I promise we come in peace. Look, I’ll even show you a little magic trick! Watch this.”

He pulls out the candy he’d offered Nate earlier, showing it to the kid, who still won’t say anything but has their eyes locked onto Wade’s hands. Wade does some fancy, flouncy thing with his hands, and then manages to make the candy ‘disappear’ — by wedging a corner of it between his fingers and making it hang out the back. His palms are empty as he waves his hands theatrically, the kid’s eyes widening further, somehow. And then he does something with his hands again, flicking out the candy in less than a blink, making it magically reappear before the kid’s eyes.

“Criss Angel, eat your heart out.” Wade says smugly, tossing the candy over to the kid. The kid catches it, looking at it, before looking back at Wade.

“... I. I know how you did that.” The kid finally speaks up, surprisingly. “I saw it, on TV.”

And Wade — Wade somehow looks  _shocked_ , body straightening and gasping in mock offence so loud it even makes Nate snort. “The nerve! I’ll have you know I only use 100% cruelty-free, homegrown,  _wholegrain_  magic!”

The kid actually  _smiles_ , shaky and small, but present. “You hid it behind your hand.”

Wade throws his hands up theatrically. “Fuckin’ debunked by a kid. I’ll have you know you just ruined my career. Now I’ll have to go back to making a living by clipping  _that_  one’s nosehairs.” Wade says, gesturing to Nate over his shoulder.

“That’s disgusting,” Nate frowns the same time the kid pulls a face and goes, “That’s gross,” and Wade snorts, finally standing.

“God, you don’t even  _know_. The boogers on that guy. See his metal arm? He can’t pick his nose like regular people because his  _absurdly_  long nose hairs keep getting stuck in the metal-ly joint bits, and it makes him cry. So it’s up to  _me_  to have to take over and do my good part for senior citizens and clip all his nasty, booger-crusted nose furs. Doesn’t even tip me.” Wade complains, holding out a hand casually to the kid. “Tell you what, you come with us out of here and you can make it up to me by advising me on some better career options, yeah? I’m thinking: circus clown, or Superman.”

The kid  _beams_ , and takes Wade’s hand. “Superman.”

“Big same. I’d punch Captain America in the dick.” Wade says sagely, walking back out.

Wade sounds so  _light_. So natural, dealing with this child who had been shaking like a cornered animal just minutes before, now  _grinning_  and  _laughing_ , albeit weakly, fist clutched firmly in Wade’s own gloved hand. It makes something warm break in Nate’s chest. Something simultaneously familiar and new. A good feeling. They’re coming startlingly often these days.

But Nate’s not stupid enough to leave his guard completely down, and he hears the sound of footsteps before they even arrive, and he roars “ _Go_!!” and raises his shield right as five more guards run into the room and start firing.

“Upsy daisy!” Wade automatically grabs the kid, picks them up and starts running. Nate amps up his gun, and keeps his shield up to protect the two as he downs the guards.

By the time he’s done, Wade’s a little ahead of him, leading the way to the exit while Nate falls in step behind, flanks them, keeping himself hyperaware of more guards who could be coming from behind and taking down the few that try. Unfortunately means he can’t guard them from the few guards coming in from the front, but Wade’s a quick thinker. Is already curling his arms protectively around the whimpering child and taking the spray of gunfire without so much as flinching, though Nate puts an end to that quick with his shield and blasting the man hard enough into the steel walls that he gets embedded.

They keep running. Wade’s wounds bleed, and then heal, and the kid is crying but they keep going and then there’s the exit, the captives waiting expectantly beyond. Wade dashes out first, and Nate stays behind to rig a virus into the system using the control panel, before ripping out said control panel from the wall, sliding down and out the heavy steel blast doors before it crashes down on him. The building is blast-proof, heavy defenses, no signals in or out when it’s closed up  — and now is, effectively, a sealed, indestructible metal box. No one can get in, but it sure as shit means none of the bastards left inside can get out.

Around him, he hears sounds of relief. Some of the kids are crying, so are some of the adults. A few sob their gratitude at him — he doesn’t respond, because he’s not really here for  _them_  specifically, he’s here to make sure shit like this stops happening. He’s aware that that makes him look like an insensitive, uncaring asshole. That’s fine. So long as he gets the job done, and right now his job is to do the dirty, bloody work, contact the X-Men, who will in turn contact the relevant authorities to help everyone out here, and then he and Wade will leave long before said authorities start asking  _them_  questions.

Besides. Someone else is already doing the people-handling pretty well. Wade’s behind him, theatrically receiving everyone’s thanks with flourishes and what looks like a bad curtsey when Nate turns around. It makes him snort.

Wade seems to  _beam_  at him from under the mask as he walks over. “Another job well done! And you didn’t even have to get blown up like the last segment, god bless. High five, mi amigo!”

Nate ignores the proffered hand, as he always does, and just confirms the messages he sends out before turning back to Wade. “It’s done. Tell them to settle down, the X-Men should be here soon.”

“And I assume that’s our cue to leave. Sad. I think these guys were gonna hold us a stripper party in thanks. And if they weren’t, they ought to.” Wade says cheerily, elbowing Nate lightly in the arm. “We make such a good team, partner.”

Nate rolls his eyes, but doesn’t disagree. Doesn’t even try to keep the twitch of his mouth off his face, even when he feels it happen. Wade isn’t wrong. Considering how they operate these days — partner’s not a bad term for it.

“Aw _ww_ h my god, is that a smile? Is that a heartwarming smile? Well bless my heart and shit my knickers, Nathaniel Summerchild has a  _heart_.” Wade gasps in mock awe, hand on his forehead and his chest, accent drawled in a southern belle that makes Nate roll his eyes, more fondly than he thinks of. “Blessed  _be_ , I never done thought I’d see the day that — woah!”

Nate’s eyes dart down there, just in time to see a blur of a child latch onto Wade’s leg. The same kid from before. Still shaky, crying again, but arms now locked hard enough over Wade’s leg that their little knuckles are turning white.

“Oh- _ho_  there, kiddo, you’re gonna wanna loosen your grip there. And maybe not shove your face on my thigh. There is  _so_  much blood on it.” Wade says brightly, though there’s... an undertone to it. Something deeper. “Kid?”

“Don’t go,” the kid says, quiet enough that Nate has to strain to hear, “Please don’t go.”

And the mask is covering Wade’s face, but there’s no mistaking how the man’s shoulders tense up, harsh and rigid. Nate has half a mind to pry the kid off — gently, of course, but he  _knows_  those shoulders. Knows that when Wade’s body gets like this, some nerve has been struck, some chord. And sometimes it ends with Nate coming home to a hung or shot or eviscerated body in the bathtub. He’s willing to make some kid cry for a few minutes than let that happen.

But then Wade’s shoulders go soft again, body relaxing, and Wade gently moves the kid off himself before crouching to look at them in the eyes again.

“Sorry, sweetie, but I gotta get this geriatric toaster back to the old folk’s home before dinnertime. Gramps has to have his mushy peas or he’ll throw a fit. You saw him with the gun? He is  _so_  much worse with a cane.” Wade says, gloved hand on the kid’s shoulder. “And  _you_  are gonna go to safe hands, trust me. You know the X-Men? Those overrated mutant boyscouts? They’re unfortunately actually good people, most of ‘em, so you don’t have to worry.”

“But I don’t wanna go with them,” the kid starts crying harder now, “I wanna go with you, what if they take us somewhere bad, I, I don’t, I don’t wanna — “

“They won’t. They don’t even have the budget to fill up the mansion. And besides,” Wade hums, before reaching behind the kid’s ear and suddenly pulling out another wrapped candy, grinning, “You’ve got  _magic_  to take care of you now.”

He drops the candy into the kid’s hands, presses the tiny fist over it. And the kid — well. The kid just cries harder. Watching them, hearing them — it makes Nate’s chest ache in the familiarity of it all. Like he’s been here before.

It’s times like these that he misses Hope the most.

“Hey,” Nate finds himself saying before he can think about it, voice gravelly from his tone going lower, hesitantly hovering his hand over the kid’s other shoulder before thinking better of it and crossing his arms back instead, “You’ll be fine. S’our mission to take down places like this. The X-Men are... Good people. Decent.”

He’s shit at this. He knows he is. He’s never been good at... comfort. How he’d managed to make Hope laugh so much, he still doesn’t know.

In fact, he still doesn’t know how it works  _now_ , the kid miraculously stopping the sobs to just sniffle, staring up at him with wide eyes. “Really?”

Nate hesitates another beat, before nodding, sure. “Yeah. Made a promise to my family and everything. Gonna take down these bad guys, gonna try and make the world better. You’ll be okay.”

“And you could probably do the same, you know, just saying.” Wade cheerfully points out. “Me and McFlurry machine here, we’re going to take down as many bad guys —  _worse_  guys as we can. And you, you just keep taking care of yourself, and be a good guy and whatever, and once we get rid of all these shit-for-brains, you can grow up and take over. Make it better. Turn this lab space into a, a, I don’t know — make it a butterfly garden or something. Go wild. Do something good.”

“Be Superman.” Nate can’t help but interject, amused, and feels something good break in his chest at the way Wade looks up at him, shoulders relaxing further.

“Yeah,” Wade says, voice soft in a way that it so rarely is,  _grateful_ , if Nate were reaching, “Yeah, do that.”

And the kid breaks into a grin, shaky, but real, and it’s enough to make something peaceful settle in Nate. A rare feeling. The kid nods, and sniffs in snotty and loud, candies still clutched in small fists as they hug Wade one last time. And then hugs  _Nate’s_  leg, quickly and shyly but tightly, before running off to join the rest of the captives, waiting for the others to arrive.

Nate’s heart squeezes. And then squeezes again, when Wade stands up and looks at him, smile evident even through the mask.

“Aw,” Wade says, teasing but still gentler than he normally is, “You  _do_  have a heart.”

Nate huffs, turns away and back to the sky. “So do you.”

“‘Ness and I  _were_  trying for a family, before.” Wade says, somehow quieter, disarming enough that Nate’s gaze snaps back down to him. And then, like nothing’s happened, Wade looks at him fully and bright. “You’re a softy, I knew it!”

“I  _had_  a daughter. And I’m trying not to repeat the fuck-up with Russell.”

“Hey, people deal with grief in different ways. Some people cry a bunch, some people do yoga, and apparently some people travel back in time to kill potential-future-murderer kids in griefrage. You made up for it the end anyway, remember? In a pretty big way? Blew your last chance home to save  _me_  for some bullshit reason? I know that doesn’t make it up to Russell, but you know. Baby steps.” Wade says, and Nate’s known him long enough to trace the undercurrents of self-loathing still tingeing the latter parts of his words, bitter. And then it goes soft again, and he nudges Nate’s arm. “Look at us, being good influences. Your wife and kid would be proud of you.”

He knows. He knows they would. Aliya would throttle him for even thinking of killing a kid over what happened before, but she’d stop him. Like Wade did. And she’d be proud of this, and so would Hope, like Hope always was of her daddy.

It’s nice hearing it aloud though. Nate’s not too prideful to admit that.

“Thanks,” he finally says, more gruff than begrudging. “And I have my reasons for saving you.”

And now he can tell it’s  _Wade_  rolling his eyes. “Is it because of your selfless martyring saviour-complex? I bet it’s your selfless martyring saviour-complex. You always do that in the comics.”

Nate huffs. “It’s not a selfless martyring saviour-complex.”

“Uh huh, sure. So, tell me, you bodysliding bastard, does the whole future fix still work in the pre-retconned timeline where I die?”

“... Yeah.”

Wade snorts. “Thought so. You didn’t need me alive to stick around and do your save-the-world shit. And I thought  _I_  was extra. You just nuked your way home for an idiot, you poor dunce. An idiot who  _wanted_  to die, bee-tee-dubs. ‘Ness was _right there_.”

“And she said it wasn’t your time. That’s what you told me.” Nate fires back gruffly. “And I didn’t save you for that. Not _just_ that. I’ve got my reasons.”

“Wow. You’re really selling me on this.” Wade deadpans. “Ever thought of selling insurance?”

Nate sighs, exasperated. God, he hates this kind of talk. Wishes Wade’s mind was easier to access telepathically, maybe it’d be easier just nailing the thoughts directly in than Nate trying to gracelessly say it out loud.

In the end he just gestures towards the building, and to the people, and then to the two of them. “This.”

Nate stares at him. “... Uh. Was I supposed to get that?”

 _Christ_. “I saved you because of this.” Nate tries again. Growls and pinches the bridge of his nose when Wade just shakes his head confusedly, and then tries a third time. “World’s going to shit. Doing what I did, no matter what, already fucked with the timeline. Even alive, my wife and daughter would be different in this world. So will I. Aliya, Hope —  _my_  Aliya and Hope — they’re gone. In a different existence. I can’t change that no matter how far I slide back in time and I figured that out already.”

He pauses there. Looks at Wade, waiting for an interruption, but the man just keeps looking at him, quiet. Nate breathes, and continues. “But since I’m already here, I figure I can change  _this_  timeline for the better — and you’re the only other person who can help me. You’re strong. Capable . Dependable. Honest. Funny. Good heart. We fight good together, get along decent, I can trust you, and you’re least liable to die on me when we do shit like this. Seemed more than reasonable to keep you in this world with me.”

Wade still doesn’t respond. Nate sighs.

“So no. Not selfless martyring... Whatever bullshit. Fully selfish.” Nate finally ends with, gesturing to imply the end of his miniature tangent. “That make you feel any better?”

“... You  _so_  did not think of all that when you saved me.” Wade finally responds, sounding simultaneously sulky and — relieved, a little bit. Not wholly convinced, but getting there.

Nate relaxes, snorts. “You had a fifteen minute death speech, stupid. Had more than enough time to think about it.”

Wade squawks. “ _Fifteen_!! Fifteen my  _ass_ , I bet it was barely ten, and I deserved more and you  _know it_  if I could make rando future muties have epiphanies. And if you think I’m trustworthy, you really oughta get a psych eval, stat.”

“You’re predictably unpredictable, half insane and entirely ridiculous, with the moral area of mud. And least you didn’t try to kill a kid. For all the heart you say you don’t have, you seem set on putting a lot of it on the line for ‘em.” Nate says, pitching his voice lower. Nodding at the kid earlier, now talking with some others, before turning to walk the other way. “And I can trust that. Better to know someone’s liable to fuck with you than have someone pretend otherwise and fuck with you later. Seems to be working out for us so far, isn’t it?”

“... Alright, fine. Point taken.” Wade snorts, falling into step. They can both hear the sound of the approaching jet — their cue to leave. “Doesn’t change your terrible taste in tantalizingly tacky testicle-faced terrors.”

Nate rolls his eyes, but doesn’t respond to that. That’s an issue that’ll take time to iron out. For now, he just keeps moving, getting out of sight and out of mind before the authorities arrive. He’ll come back in a week’s time or so, deactivate everything in this and wipe the systems proper. Beside him, Wade skips easily in step, starting to hum. Nate has a feeling that Wade will be right here by his side in a week’s time, too.

“Wade.”

“hmm?”

“Never call me Nathaniel again.”

 

vii.

 

Wade really digs the whole sleazy motel aesthetic. He does. Loves the way Hollywood and music videos make the whole dark rooms and sexy beds thing look so appealing, gritty and erotic and all that else.

Of course, in real life, sleazy motels are exactly that: sleazy. Less gritty, more greasy, definitely less sanitary. The motels that are willing to take up clientele with people like himself and his not-so-new robopartner are even less than five stars, but! Can’t win ‘em all, you know? Beggars can’t be choosers. Time to be grateful to the shady motel rooms and tired receptionists that are willing to take his hard-earned, bloodstained cash dollars. And besides, he still likes the aesthetics of regular shitty motels anyway. They have their charm.

Like the one they’re currently in. Has all the good shit; broken TV, a working mini-fridge, free ice, the mattress of questionable smells. The  _classique_ broken red neon sign of the motel winks at them, and the pool lights up blue.

Speaking of.

“You know, considering the people we just killed, it’s probably not the brightest idea to walk around half-naked in public.” Wade cheerfully points out from his spot on the plastic folding chair. “Not that I’m complaining about the view. Peak DILF energy.  _Rrr_.”

Nate doesn’t even spare a glance at him as he continues to take off his shirt. “We killed everyone in there. Destroyed the system and the network. No one’s gonna track us.”

“Sure, maybe not from there, but all that light you’re reflecting off that vibrator arm of yours? We could probably — probably put on the bat signal.” Wade says, and if he trips on that last sentence a little, well. No one’s allowed to blame him. Because Nate just took his shirt off and flung it to the side and yes, yeah, okay, he’s seen Nate shirtless  _plenty_  of times but there’s a certain, new kind of appeal of seeing him shirtless in the soft glow of midnight motel pool-light.

“Doubt it. Even if it does, I don’t care. Wanna wash off, and our room’s water doesn’t run.” Nate says, taking off his boots, socks, belt,  _pants_ , ho boy. Is it getting hot or is it just him? Jiminy  _fucking_  Christmas though, the briefs don’t leave  _anything_ to the imagination. Nate isn’t overcompensating with the gun — the  _gun_  is overcompensating with  _Nate_. “You gonna keep staring or can I jump in?”

Wade startles a little, looks up at Nate’s amused smirk.  _Motherfucker_.

“Sure, sure, whatever, when you get killed in the water, just know  _I’m_  not gonna be the one to snapchat your pic with ‘Cable found dead in Miami’.” Wade shrugs.

Nate’s already headed to the poolside. “Don’t know what that means. And I’m not gonna get killed. Gun’s right there, I’ve got a shield, and again, no one’s tracking us.”

“Yeah, but who’s gonna protect you from the  _pool_ , huh? What if you cramp and drown? What if you have an aneurysm? And that’s not even  _counting_  the water itself. You climb in there and see how many used syringes  _you_  step on.”

Nate, evidently, doesn’t actually give a rat’s ass about Wade’s educated advice, because he’s already easing into the water with a relieved sigh. Evidently doesn’t care about the whole cleanliness shtick either, because Wade can see the little discolourations in the water from where the blood and dirt is coming off of the guy’s skin. None of them his own, of course. Thank fuck for that.

 _God_ , but the water does look really, really good though. The way Nate relaxes into it, water gently rippling around that unfairly hot bod — and maybe more importantly, the sweat and grime and blood and dirt clinging to Wade after today’s fight that’s starting to get  _super_  uncomfortable. It doesn’t help that it’s a hot spell today, and his suit is sticking in all the wrong places. Chafe fuckin’ city, right up in the unholy state of testicular fire.

In the end he goes  _fuck it_  and heads over to the poolside. Kicks off his footwear because he’s not a  _complete_  asshole, thank you very much, and then moves to sit at the edge, right by where Nate is, dunking his still suited legs into the water and oh, god, that’s  _so_  nice. So, so, so nice, and sure, it’s gonna be a damp walk back to the room, but he’s sure he can live with it. He can feel his leg muscles relaxing already.

“Thought you were concerned about dirty water.” Nate points out, looking at Wade’s legs.

He’s not moving away though, and that makes Wade hum in a good feeling kinda way. “Sure, but I’ve got a healing factor, and there’s nothing on me that wasn’t already on you, so.”

“Fair enough.” Nate grunts. And then the fucker submerges.

When he comes back up he looks downright, nigh fuckin’  _unfair_. Emerges from the water like a seagod, or at least some grizzled jerkoff parody of Baywatch, rivulets of water streaming down the man’s body, a little softer round the edges and the middle from a little over a year now of living in the good ol’ 21st century but still absolutely fucking  _chiselled_. Has the nerve to slick his wet hair back, even, making those ridiculous biceps bulge, droplets of water sitting and slicking across them, the hard shoulders, the curve of his broad back muscles, his Adonis belt,  _glistening_  on the robotic bits of him.

Wade thinks:  _I will set fire to this entire motel right fucking now to lick that water off of him. Slowly_.

Wade says: “You know, I always wondered how you haven’t started sparking and electrocuting yourself in the shower.”

Nate looks at him, raising a lazy brow as the man settles into the pool, leaning against the edge, arms hooked on the side. “What?”

Wade ignores the way Nate’s elbow is casually nudged up against his thigh in favour of gesturing to his fancy-schmancy tech arm. “This! This radical shit! Shouldn’t it be sparking everywhere by now? Going haywire? Set to explode? Do you put it in rice after you go for swims like these or is it like those new smartphones where it’s completely waterproof? In which case — why  _isn’t_  it more like the new smartphones? It’s not 21st century livin’ in here unless you download Instagram and can snap some solid selfies with your arm. Tell me, do _you_ dream of electric sheep?”

Nate, like always, bulldozes through half of Wade’s eloquent speech with a deadpan look in his eye as he says “It’s techno-organic, dipshit.”

“Yeah yeah, it’s a disease blah blah more machine than man blah blah, I saw the movie.” Wade handwaves. “Still doesn’t answer my question. That made of waterproof wires or what?”

“No. Not really. It...” Nate starts, before trailing off, looking up like he can’t quite grasp the words. Scrunches his nose while he looks for them. It really shouldn’t be so endearing, the man’s probably close to fifty. “... It eats the human cells. The flesh. Replaces it with it’s own. Metal, but alive, and imitates the flesh, sort of. Waterproof, sure. New shit on it too. But then it takes over slowly, spreads, eats the healthy cells until there aren’t any left and you become this... vessel. Worse than dead. Nothing but uncontrollable pain, the rest of your life, if you’ve got a life left after all that.”

Wow. Ouch. That’s dark. Also, cowinky-dink, much?  _This hits way too close to home to be fair. Talk about narrative conveniences_.

Not that Wade’s super great at big heart-to-hearts though, so he definitely just flicks Nate’s metal arm. It chimes, but lowly, like it’s solid — which it is — and oddly warm. Huh.

“So, does this disease exist in this century?” Wade questions, running his gloved thumb on Nate’s metal shoulder, catching the condensation and internally loving how Nate lets him. “Sounds  _awful_  familiar to me.”

And Nate actually looks a little  _softer_  at that. Just a flicker. God  _damn_  this man. “No. It’s not from this era. It is — was — will be — a weapon of war.” Pauses. “It doesn’t develop from earth cancer.”

Wade sniffs. “Yeah, figures. I just  _happen_  to miss it. I frankly think it’s unfair that we  _both_  get to have fantastical terminal illnesses but  _you_  get the cool one. Like the gun wasn’t badass enough.”

“This virus is liable to turn me into a soulless husk living in perpetual agony. In the next decade or so it’s going to get to my brain, and then I’d be better off dead.” Nate points out, deadpan. “That isn’t badass.”

“Been there, done that, big guy. Even went into the program to try and cure it, and all it did was make me basically immortal and eternally hideous.” Wade replies, full of artificial cheer. “Immortality is super overrated by the way, and I  _definitely_  do not recommend the treatment. 0/10, would not visit again, shit didn’t even cure my cancer, it’s just locked in some forever stalemate with the healing factor. Hello, everyday pain.”

“Sounds awful familiar to me.” Nate replies, cracks a sharp smile up at him. “My powers are the only things keeping this fucking disease from spreading faster than it has to. Why do you think I barely use them in combat?”

“Because you’re a slut for pain?” Wade brightly suggests, before settling down. Still thumbing Nate’s shoulder, just idle stroking now. “Pretty fucking exhausting, isn’t it.”

Nate’s eyes go soft, looking at him. Nods, like he really gets it. Wade moves his hand to where the to is spread up the nape of Nate’s neck, the skin rippling around where it stops. Thumbs it, gentle, and feels something warm and gooey drip down his chest in a non-disgusting way when Nate leans into the touch, eyes closing.

“You tired?” Nate asks, all quiet like. Wade knows he’s not talking about today’s fight.

“Always,” Wade hums. “Body fighting itself all the time, can’t make up its mind. ‘s never a matter of  _if_  there’s gonna be pain, it’s just how much.”

Nate nods, eyes still closed. “Notoriously painful when it spreads. Hurts like nothing else all the time.”

“And the shit keeping it in check is super fucking draining. Doesn’t even stop it, it’s still there, which is bee ess, IMO.” Wade agrees. Knows, definitely, that neither of them are talking about just themselves anymore. “Gotta push through it.”

“Find other ways to ease the pain. Somehow. Whatever way.” Nate finishes. Finally flickers his eyes open, back to Wade and  _shit_ , he knows it’s some terminal future cancer or whatever, but the way Nate’s to eye glows warm at him makes all sorts of fuzzies hop around his gut. “The water. Swimming. It helps me. It could help you, with the pain.”

“I’ll give a strong pass on that one, buddy. And I’m not just saying that because my doggy paddle is sad to look at.” Wade snorts, moving his hand to play with the damp hair at the base of Nate’s head. “I used to be a professional swimmer, true story. Olympic-level even. And then I caught this hot mess and they suddenly don’t think I’m TV worthy anymore. A real shame, I think, I had the  _perfect_  hello kitty spandex to wear on live television.”

Nate just keeps looking at him, that same soft, intense way. Like he gets what Wade’s saying here, under all his lovingly applied layers of bullshit — climbing into public swimming pools with this body? Full display?

Some sights are best kept hidden. If they’re _really_ all about saving the world and whatever, it’ll be better off without seeing any of this.

“A real shame.” Nate echoes, looking Wade directly in the eyes and making him swallow a knot in his throat, but doesn’t pressure. Looks back out to the water, relaxes a little more. “Water helps me. The TO masquerades as flesh but it’s still metal. Heavy as shit. Don’t know how many operations I’ve had to have to make sure my body can take the strain of the weight. Getting bones reinforced. Water buoyancy takes the strain off, temporarily.”

“So  _that’s_  why you always take so ridonkulously long in the bath!” Wade gasps. “And here I was thinking you were just taking your sweet time prostate milking. You should tell your roommate these things. I gotta give you some Lush.”

“Don’t know what that is. Not gonna ask.” Nate huffs. Goes quiet for awhile, before speaking up again, “Sorry to hear it.”

Wade blinks down at him, stops stroking the nape of Nate’s neck. “What, about Lush? They don’t do animal testing or anything, so you don’t — “

“Not about Lush, you moron. The other thing.” Nate snaps. “And don’t stop doing that.”

“Oh, please. Don’t start pitying me about my fuckin’ disease. That’s a new low, even for me. I’ll teabag you ‘til dawn.” Replies Wade, while resuming the whole neck stroking thing, because he’s a nice guy and a great friend  _thank you_ , and does not, in fact, stop doing that. “I thought the whole point of our little bonding thing earlier was, you know, about that.”

Nate stares at him, again. That same intense way. Like he has the gall to mean what he says. “Not about your disease. Your healing factor.”

Oh. Huh. That’s new.

“Not a whole lot of people feel  _sorry_  for me about that.” Wade blinks. “Usually think it’s a good thing to be reusable bullet fodder. Walkin’, talkin’ meatshield.”

Nate shrugs. Leans in closer to Wade’s touch, more or less just leaning his head on Wade’s palm now, not that Wade’s doing anything to stop it. “Sure. ‘s a good thing to have, during combat, when there’s a mission objective. Out there fighting, maybe. But not a whole lot of people get it. The pain of outliving everyone and everything you love.”

Well, that’s a blunt way to put it. Ha.

It’s not like Wade hasn’t thought of it before. He is, actually,  _very_  intimately acquainted with the thought. His healing factor, and everything it means — he’s had his head cut off and blown up, his body turned to mush, he’s died, over and over and over but it just won’t fucking stick. And if aggressive cancer can’t make it past the healing factor, if acid vats can’t make it past the healing factor, if fucking  _gallons and gallons of experimental fuel_  can’t make it past the healing factor — what will?

Blind Al might be a ferocious woman who could make death piss, maybe, but she won’t live forever. Weasel’s liable to die anytime now just on account of the profession he’s in and also because he’s  _kind_  of a weak freak. Domino has Lady Luck shining on her side, but luck doesn’t equal immortality, no matter how much the comics love messing with time and mutant powers and mixing it up in someone’s asshole. Dopinder, Colossus, Negasonic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, sweet Yukio — they all have to go someday.

Even death and beyond can’t wait for Wade forever. ‘Ness hasn’t shown up for two months. The last thing she’d said was  _I like white roses, please knock that cherub off my gravestone, try and change your underwear more than once a week, okay baby_?

And now this. Next decade or so, Nate said — and then that’s one more person Wade will have to say goodbye to.

His heart hurts. A lot. It’s probably the cancer.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Wade tries to chime, after maybe just a couple beats too long of silence and absolutely ignoring the way Nate’s gaze bores into him, “At least  _someone_  gets to observe the heat death of the universe!”

Nate raises a brow. “You really mean that?” Nate asks, dryly.

“Of fucking  _course_  I don’t really mean that, Fuckface McGee, but what other goddamn choice do I have!” Wade laughs, and it’s — yeah, okay, it’s bitter and sharp but if Nate has an issue with it then  _maybe_  he shouldn’t have brought it up, alright? “End of the world, me still kicking around — I don’t know if we still get Netflix in the next billion years so I’ll have to entertain myself somehow. God I fucking hope they make indestructible iPads. The infinite void sounds boring as shit.”

Nate doesn’t even respond to that. Just fucking  _hmm_ s like that’s enough, and then — oh, okay, there he goes. Submerges himself into the water again. Wade’s fingers tingle even through the leather, the ones that’d been stroking Nate’s ridiculously hot neck, and, well. Fine then. Be that way. Nate’s not the best conversationalist anyway, if he wants to go back to swimming he can, Wade’ll just head up back to the motel room and clean his swords for the bajillionth time today —

And then two warm, wet hands land on his knees, and Nate hauls himself up. Drips all over Wade’s lap, stares that intense way he does. Wade’s more than man enough to admit the sight leaves him breathless.  _Hot damn_.

“Will be about ten years or so ‘til this disease fucks me over,” Nate says in that low, low growl of his that makes Wade  _shiver_ , the damp hands on Wade’s knees moving up to the meat of his thighs and bringing heat with them, “Pretty sure I’ll find a way to make you dead by then. Make you  _stay_  dead. There’s nothing I can’t kill.”

And. It says a lot about Wade’s current taste in partners, and overall mental state, that the statement actually honest-to-god  _touches him_. The man has just made a promise to fucking murder Wade in a decade’s time, and Wade actually wants to choke up a little at it. Nate has no right to sound so intense. No right to sound like he  _means this_ , not out of hostility but like he  _cares_ , like he actually gives a shit enough about Wade to kill him. Actually cares enough to promise Wade the biggest mercy he’ll ever receive — the ability to die, and stay dead.

It might just be the sweetest thing anyone will ever do for him.

“Promises, promises,” Wade replies, smirking, maybe breathier than he intends and not giving a single ounce of fucks about it, “Sounds like I gotta repay the favour.”

The way Nate smirks  _back_ , grins like a shark, oh, god. Wade thinks his heart’s going to explode. “Sounds only fair, I think.”

Wade takes a leap. “Fine,” he purrs, runs both his hands down the length and curves of Nate’s biceps, “You find a way to make me stay dead, and I’ll be the one to put the bullet through your brain before the virus can.”

“Deal.” Nate says lowly. His hands are soaking pool water into Wade’s suit, his thighs.

Wade pulls in a shaky breath. “I’ve got one condition though.”

That makes Nate pause. Frowns, the confused way he does sometimes with the furrow in his brow, and it’s the cutest shit Wade’s seen all month. “What condition?”

Wade grins. “I get to use your ridiculawesome gun to do it.”

Nate  _snorts_. Grins, closes his eyes and chuckles, leaning his forehead against Wade’s shoulder, says, “Fine, jackass. I’ll be too dead to care anyway.”

“You bet your sweet, sweet robo-ass you will.” Wade giddily promises, and feels his heart catch fire when he feels the shake of Nate’s quiet laughter on his shoulder.

And then Nate straightens back up. Eyes trail up slowly, blazing, back up to look at Wade’s. Hands smoothing over the top of his thighs, then down the sides.

Forget the heat death of the universe, he’s having heat death in his  _crotch._  The way Nate’s looking at him, the way Nate’s touching him. Their closeness. His breath and pulse stutter, and it’s not because of his terminal illness. Nate leans —

And then Wade gets only a split second of Nate’s sharklike grin before those strong hands grab the back of his knees and pull him into the water.

Wade surfaces half a second later, gasping, drenched to the undies he’s not wearing. Points a sopping wet finger at Nate, who is honest to god  _laughing_  at him, looking like the cat who BBQ’d the canary. 

“You sneaky son of a bitch!” Wade points harder, can’t hide the laugh in his own voice even as he’s trying his damndest to sound at least a  _little_  bit pissed, “I only brought this one suit! Oh, I am  _so_  going to lie in this on your side of the bed. See how  _you_  like it, you fucking child. You’re going to so, so regret this sexy suicide pact you made with me. I’m gonna  _kill you_.”

And Nate — the slippery, gorgeous,  _ridiculous_  bastard — only smirks. “Promises, promises.”

This man’s going to be the death of him. It’s going to be  _great_.

 

viii.

 

The temperatures start dipping around October. Not as harshly as he would expect — in his time, climate change and the overall skullfucking of the world’s temperatures means harsher colds. Writhing heats.

This world’s autumn, in turn, is chilled, crisp, but overall... Nice, actually. Enjoyable. He’s starting to see the appeal of the season, starting to enjoy seeing the trees in their oranges and burnt golds, dropping leaves that crunch underfoot when he walks across them. The smell of the fresh chill in the air, the hushed sound of people milling around them, food and traffic and constant conversations. The little things.

He doesn’t even remember trees, in his world.

If he does this right, he can change that.

“You have your thinky face on again,” says a familiar voice beside him, brings him blinking back to the present, “Stop doing that, you’re gonna hurt your brain.”

Nate raises a brow. “Thinking will hurt my brain.” he echoes, deadpan. His brain already hurts anyway, or rather his head does. The shop they’re in is using some sort of essential oils. The pungent cinnamon smell is giving him a headache.

Wade beams from in front of him, and then throws the scarf around his neck, face a little shadowed in the cap he’s wearing and the hood he’s pulled up and over that. Nate doesn’t say a thing about it though. Wade’s not in costume today. Not even masked. “That means I think you’re stupid, stupid. Now put this on properly, it’s fucking freezing out.”

“It’s barely chilly,” Nate argues, but doesn’t object when Wade does the scarf up for him. Just watches, quiet, while Wade focuses on adjusting the fabric until it looks just right. A crease in his brow and the slight part of his scarred mouth. It still fascinates Nate, up to a certain degree, how concentrated Wade can get, considering how much of a localized hurricane the man’s mind is every other percent of the time.

“Aaand now it’s perfect. Check it!  _So_  much better than that dumb, ugly, throw-up pea green infinity monstrosity you have at home. Burnt pumpkin is a  _much_  better look for you.” Wade finally grins, brown eyes bright as he smooths out the dark orange fabric over Nate’s collar. “Something to really get you situated in the autumn mood, you know? God, Halloween will be fun.”

Nate just hums, thumbing the cloth through fingerless gloves. It’s soft. Warmer than the ones he already has. It’s not a bad choice, not by a longshot, and the price is decent. “Okay.”

Wade blinks. “Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll take it.” Nate cocks a brow. “It means I like it, stupid.”

Wade snorts. “Well ex _cuse_  me for not figuring out your fickle mind, half the time I introduce you to new, exciting things and you throw it back in my face like an ingrate. Like last night! Giving me some mixed fuckin’ signals here, Nathan.”

“You ‘introduced’ me to peanut butter and mustard soup last night, dick for brains.” Nate deadpans. “No, I still don’t fucking believe that that’s a ‘21st century delicacy.’ I’m unfamiliar, not stupid.”

“You just don’t have the refined tastebuds I do,” Wade sniffs, before dragging him to the cashier. “C’mon, toaster alive, let’s get out of here before the cinnamon smell cauterizes the insides of my nostrils.”

They get the scarf. Wade gestures animatedly at Nate the whole time they talk to the cashier, pays up, yanks the tag off, and Nate walks out of the store and into cold afternoon air wearing the thing. It’s more comfortable than he’d originally expected. Beside him, the fact that Wade tugs the hood of his jacket firmer, up and over his cap before he starts walking down the street doesn’t go unnoticed.

It’s a nice day outside, Nate admits. Times like these Nate can almost pretend the world’s still got some semblance of peace and hope in it. Lets him breathe, lets him  _be_ , and even Wade is quiet besides him, just humming softly whatever song is playing in that playground of a mind he has. They stroll at a slow, unhurried pace — they don’t have anywhere to be today. The only reason they’d come out at all was Wade insisting that Nate  _had_  to update his wardrobe to ‘21st century wear and not military hand me downs.’ which is why Nate’s holding approximately five bags worth of clothes in his left hand. 

He sincerely doubts he’ll need even half of it. Has a strong feeling that Wade will be the one to use them, will borrow them and then ‘forget’ to give them back, like he’s already done with half of Nate’s shirts, even though they’re too short or too wide on him. Nate’s tastes have always been simple, utilitarian. Wade’s more... eclectic. Always wears too little or too much. Like now, where Nate’s comfortable in his jeans, his sweater, the jacket overtop (and the new scarf, now.)

Wade, on the other hand, has: an undershirt, a sweatshirt over that, a jacket over  _that_ , the hood pulled up and over his baseball cap, mittens, jeans, two pairs of guaranteed mismatched socks under heavy boots. Nate can barely see any of Wade under all the layers — though he has a heavy, heavy suspicion that that’s the point of things. Why the layers, why the coverage. Why Wade is quieter than normal, but also smiling more than he usually does out in the general public like this. More genuinely.

“You’re thinking again, Barry. Better stop before you give yourself an aneurysm.” Wade hums, slipping his arm around Nate’s and leaning up like a contented cat.

Nate doesn’t even think about pulling away. Just leans into it. “And you’re being uncharacteristically quiet.”

Wade laughs. “And you usually tell me to shut up! Tough crowd. Make up your mind, better Bucky Barnes.”

Nate huffs. Keeps walking, adjusting his grip on the shopping bags as he does. “Just not used to it. Never said it was a bad thing.” Pauses. “Never said you talking was a bad thing, either.”

It’s just weird. Wade was, and is, a beacon. A draw of light and sound, a fount of witty words and snappy charisma when he wants to be and drawing the attention of anyone in a room. He talks, endlessly, chatters inanely about nothing and everything at once, a thousand lies and misdirections and a few kernels of truths in between everything else. Always the star of the show, grabbing the spotlight with both hands and focusing it on himself, always. Loud and unabashed and unapologetic about it.

It’s just odd, to see him subtle, passive, for once.

“Well, good, because there’s only one way you could ever shut me up, and that’s your big, thick,  _juicy_  hunk of meat down my thr — “

“No.”

“I was  _referring_  to your muy excellente steaks, actually, but thanks for throwing the thought straight into the gutter and ruining it for children everywhere.”

Nate snorts. Wade  _laughs_ , bright and open the way it usually never is out in public like this. Nate can’t help but look at it — he’s seen it, of course, at home or in private, but never out in the open like this. Not when there’s so many other people milling around. And it’s a fucking shame, Nate thinks, because Wade looks  _good_  in this gentle autumn light. The way the quiet afternoon sun peeks between leaves to illuminate the crook of his grin and the wave of his scars and the delicate line of his pockmarked throat, renders him gentle and cotton-soft around the edges.

It’s a good look on Wade. And it’s a shame that it’s one that doesn’t come often.

“And now you’re staring,” Wade says, the crook of his smile amused and a little gorgeous, “Flattery will get you  _everywhere,_ Nathan. Except maybe Coachella. Keep looking at a guy like this and he’ll start thinking he’s handsome.”

And now it’s Nate’s turn to smirk. “Who said you weren’t?”

“About every person I meet.” Wade answers easily, too easily. Catches Nate’s eyes again, and laughs almost awkwardly at whatever look flits on Nate’s face — he wouldn’t know, he can’t tell what it is either. “What? It’s common knowledge.”

“Shouldn’t be.” Nate gruffs, turning his eyes straight ahead. “‘s untrue.”

Wade snorts. It’s the uncomfortable kind. “Mm, majority says no, but I appreciate the vote of confidence even though lying is a sin. It’s  _fine_ , my meaty muscly metal man, weepy self-loathing is so first movie. I’m used to it now.”

“Shouldn’t have to be. Ain’t right.” Nate says, frowning. “Anyway. We should stop by the store before we head home. Need to get milk and — what?”

“You’re so fucking serious about this. Oh my god, you  _are_  serious,” Wade laughs in disbelief, outright staring, stopping in their tracks as people move around them in annoyance. “Why do you think I only go maskless in public to Sister Margaret’s, huh? Or the laundromat? Newsflash, buddypal, this mug of mine isn’t exactly the Mona Lisa of faces, and as much of a masochist I am, I’m not starving for enough pain to make it  _easier_  for people to stare at me in public. Christ.”

Wade’s arm slips from his, and Nate sighs, trying not to let too much of his frustration bleed out into it. Probably fails. Fine. “You’re being too fucking dramatic. I just think you’re attractive. Does that fact bother you?”

“It’s the fact you think it at all and I really, really can’t tell if you’re being serious or sarcastic.” Wade laughs, wild and bitter, looking away from Nate, crossing his arms. “I don’t need your fuckin’ pity.”

Nate rolls his eyes hard enough his head hurts. And then he slips  _his_  arm through Wade’s, takes advantage of the surprise to un-cross the arms and take hold of Wade’s hand. Twines their fingers. “I wasn’t being sarcastic, and I don’t pity you. I’m just making an observation.” Nate says, voice low and gruff and only a little irritated. “Water’s wet. Fire’s hot. So are you. Thought so from the second we met. Thought I made it abundantly clear.”

Wade’s staring. Not pulling his hand away though. “So, you — “

“ — think you’re attractive, yeah. That’s my opinion. Don’t know about the rest of these fucks, don’t particularly care. It ain’t right that they stare at you or call you names but I can’t force their opinions to change, just like you can’t change mine.” Nate bulldozes on. “If you’re only comfortable going out when it’s cold and you can wrap up, fine. If it makes you happy, do it. I’m not forcing you to tear off that jacket or dump the mask if you don’t want to. Just respect my goddamn views about you and stop being a bitch about it.”

Quiet. Not the good kind, this time. Wade turns back to the ground, his face shielded from Nate’s view, and Nate almost wants to sigh and give up on the topic and just go home when Wade finally breaks the silence.

“You’ve got terrible fucking tastes if you think this is attractive,” Wade says, finally, bitter but less hostile, “... Thanks anyway.”

Nate looks at him. Stares, and stares, until Wade squirms. And then,

“You insulting my wife?”

Wade stares back. “What?”

“Saying I got terrible tastes. You insulting my wife, then?” Nate fires, forces his tone lower.

He can  _see_  Wade mentally backpedal. It takes a lot of willpower not to laugh. “Oh, woah, wait, no, I didn’t mean  _that_ , I was, you know — wow. I swear I grew back all my braincells in that last fight.”

 _That_  makes Nate break, the twitch of his mouth finally betraying the chuckle that leaves him. And that, in turn, makes Wade blink up owlishly at him, before his own expression goes deadpan, though not before his fingers flex against Nate’s, curling in. Not before his brain projects loudly the word  _son of a bitch_  and his own scarred mouth betrays a grin.

“Oh, you bastard. I absolutely fell for that.” Wade scoffs, handwaving with his free hand, “You used your dead wife! That’s cheating! Emotional blackmail!”

“It really isn’t, and she’s not dead anymore either.” Nate hums, more sure of the latter fact as the days roll by. Sure,  _his_  Aliya’s gone, but he’s coming to terms with that. Processing better, these days. He won’t get her back the way he originally wanted, but he knows she’d kick his ass if he didn’t move on. She might actually be a little proud of him, for what he’s doing now.

 _Self sacrificing martyring bullshit_ , he hears in both her and Wade’s voice inside his head, and it makes him snort aloud. Maybe he does have questionable tastes. Always wanting people with smart minds and smarter tongues than him.

And here, this random autumn day in a century he has no right to be in, walking down a crowded New York street hand in hand with one of the wildest minds he’s ever met as he’s dragged down to streetside vendor, he thinks  _this is good._  He watches Wade’s scarred cheeks stretch in an easy grin, as the man laughs and chatters about everything and nothing all at once, background noise in the most comforting, pleasant way, and thinks  _yeah, this is better than good._

This being a lot of things, but right now, mainly; the way Wade’s eyes light up as the vendor evidently recognizes him, and preps the order immediately. The way he exaggeratedly inhales the aroma of the dirty water hotdogs with too much mustard. The way he untangles his fingers from Nate’s hand to pay for the food, and then immediately hooks his arm around Nate’s after, balancing the two hotdogs. The way he inevitably scalds his tongue on the first one and complains, even after he’d  _seen_  it steaming hot and lifted onto the bun.

It’s strange, wanting to be around Wade Wilson. Not even when he’s dangerous, or at he’s best. It’s when he’s happy, when he’s not, when he’s manic with delirium, when he’s bitterly sane and sober, when he’s swinging his swords and counting bullets, when he’s at home and singing to something on the radio, when he’s drunk up to his skull, when he’s crying in the bathtub, when he’s aggravating Nate to hell and back, when he’s being painfully endearing, when he drags Nate out for random bullshit like this and then stains the front of his white sweatshirt with hotdog mustard.

Yeah. Okay. Maybe he does have questionable tastes. Fine. That’s his life choice to make.

“You’re worth wanting, you know.” Nate finally says, as they’re walking away from the vendor, Wade halfway done with his still-steaming hotdog.

“Uh, hokay, Konoko. Anyway, open up, your hotdog’s getting cold.” Wade replies, with one not-brow cocked and his hand bringing up the hotdog, fingers stained yellow with mustard.

Nate only smirks, and mentally files away the way Wade’s brown eyes go wide, and then dark and heated, when Nate sucks the mustard off his fingers instead. The hitch in Wade’s breathing.

His brand new scarf ends up condiment-stained by the time they get home, and they forget about the milk.

 

_ix. (?)_

 

Yukio likes to think she’s observant.  _Resourceful_. She likes to think she can make the best out of any given situation, use her abilities, use the perceptions of other people to work to her advantage. She’s very, very good at it.

And it’s not that she’s faking any of it! Not really, anyway. She really  _is_  bright and cheerful because she feels bright and cheerful, loves the world and everything in it. She smiles and waves at her friends because she appreciates and loves them, and when she sits by Ellie every day, she does it because she loves her so,  _so_  much, swelling inside her and as sure as the ocean rushes towards the moon.

But she knows what she comes off as. What she looks like. Preppy, ditzy, naive. Airheaded. Easily  _underestimated_ , and, well, she’s learnt a long, long time ago that perceptions are very, very important. How people think about you shapes so much. And how sometimes being underestimated, however humiliating, brings its own benefits — benefits that Yukio will more than happily reap. She likes being the way she is, and if embracing it and going the extra mile with it means she gets a front row seat to all the inner workings of the people around her, then all the better. She doesn’t need to prove herself powerful to know that she is, and the only people whose respect and opinions she cares about most already know better than to look down on her pretty smile and her airy giggles.

So she buys a lot of pastel wigs and soft woolen sweaters, and then watches unnoticed as people’s secrets start making themselves known, softly in the light of the mansion. She waves, and they wave back, and pay her no mind while she sits at the corner, only half paying attention to her phone while she watches whoever it is battle inner thoughts.

It’s amusing. It’s fascinating. It’s very,  _very_  entertaining.

Now is no different, her bare feet quieted by the soft carpeting of the mansion, and she treads light and unnoticed towards the sounds coming from the kitchen. It’s early, this morning, and few are awake, most of the other X-Men spread out on some important official missions in Italy, Thailand, Australia. Which means there are only a certain handful of people who would be milling around the kitchen at this hour. And it’s fairly obvious who.

“... And I’m saying,  _hear me out_  — Extreme Sports: Skydiving Parkour.” She can hear Wade say, the theatrics in his voice as she comes down the stairs. “Tracers already learn how to absorb jumps by rolling, why not while skydiving?”

“Because that amount of impact would fucking kill them instantly, moron.” Comes Cable’s voice, deadpan. When Yukio comes into view of the kitchen, she decides to remain in the hallway, hidden, watching.

Cable comes by, sometimes, though it’s a rarity. His relationship with the professor is... testy, and largely secretive, even for Yukio. Not to mention that their ways of reaching their goals don’t really align.

But no matter what the rule book says, it’s an unsaid given that fighting dirty really  _is_  necessary, sometimes. And when their goals align, Cable seems to be more than willing to do the dirty work that the X-Men can’t or aren’t willing to. Yukio finds both of it admirable, and necessary — the public need the trash taken out, of course, but they also need icons. People to hang their hopes on. Morale goes a long, long way. She hopes this arrangement is fruitful — the world will inevitably end one day no matter what they do, of course, and the universe rendered to dust and then void, but until then she wants to keep doing and hoping for the best in this world. She’s helping that. So is Cable. Both, in their own methods.

Though, of course, when Cable visits, it does mean that Wade comes along too. Which means some mornings in the X-Mansion more entertaining than others. Like this one, with Wade in his suit and perched on the kitchen table, and Cable leaning against the counter directly across from him, in his usual bland military-man wear. The burnt orange scarf looks very nice with the deep sea green of his shirt, though. Yukio approves.

“Okay then, fine! Have them wear rollerskates! It’ll stop ‘em from goin’ splat on the pavement!” Wade says, throws his hands up in the air. “You know what? Let’s make a bet. I’ll do it myself and  _prove_  that it’s a great sports idea.”

“Pass. Bet won’t be worth cleaning up after you.” Cable replies dryly, arms crossed. Mouth firm, but then twitching up at the side, and  _hmm_ , that’s something interesting. “Better to have you in one piece.”

Yukio can  _hear_  the grin Wade wears under the mask. “Aw, babe, you admitting you like me? Tumours and all?” Wade singsongs, teases, swings one leg up to nudge a foot against Cable’s knee.

And Cable catches it, with his flesh hand and a certain look in his eyes. Holds it, half of what looks like a smile on his face, voice low and  _fond_ , says “Thought you already knew.” and thumbs circles on Wade’s ankle. Teasing, but not really.

Oh.

 _Oh_ , that’s  _very_  interesting.

Also, simultaneously surprising and unsurprising. Unsurprising because, yes, it’s been obvious to anyone with any working senses that Cable and Wade have a  _thing_  going on. What kind of thing, Yukio hadn’t wanted to name yet, but everyone can see how much more relaxed Cable is these days. How much Wade’s reign of self destruction has been lowering to almost nothing. How they follow each other’s tails, side by side, falling into easy conversation and familiar, fond arguments when everyone else had been betting on them to murder each other. Cable is the perfect, patient, no-bullshit grounding force Wade desperately needs — and Wade is the breeze that frees Cable, comforts him, allows him to relax and  _be_. The immovable object, and the unstoppable force.

It’s only surprising because Yukio didn’t think they would  _ever_  get around to realizing their own feelings to each other, let alone do something about it. It makes her laugh a little, quietly and to herself.

And then two warm, warm arms slip around Yukio’s waist, and she finds herself smiling wider for a whole different reason.

“Morning,” Ellie says quietly, sleepy, mouth lazy against Yukio’s ear, “You weren’t in bed.”

“Sorry. Got hungry.” Yukio apologizes, turning to press a kiss to Ellie’s cheek and revelling in the warm cheeks it leaves behind. “And then got distracted by visitors.”

Ellie looks up, then, gaze flickering to where Yukio’d been looking, and her face scrunches into the usual annoyed-disgusted-tired look she had whenever it came to those two. It makes Yukio laugh, despite herself.

The arms around Yukio tighten. “Are they arguing again?”

“Worse,” Yukio chirps primly, “They’re  _flirting_.”

Ellie exaggerates a gag, and Yukio laughs, slapping her lightly on the arm. The sound catches the attention of the other two, though evidently it doesn’t bother them — and  _that’s_  another interesting tidbit of information Yukio stores away for later, the way both Cable and Wade turn to look at them and don’t even seem bothered at being caught the way they are. Cable only lets go of the ankle like its an afterthought, not out of shame or embarrassment, and Wade hops off the counter to wave enthusiastically as Yukio leads Ellie with her to the kitchen.

Hmm. Maybe they haven’t talked about it yet after all. Or they just really don’t care. Either seem plausible.

“Morning, Yukio!” Wade greets brightly, his enthusiasm infectious as ever, “And you too, Negasonic Boom: Fire & Ice.”

“Morning Wade!” Yukio beams, waving right back. “Morning Cable!”

Cable only grunts, but it’s the good grunt, and Ellie only rolls her eyes a little bit at Wade’s greeting. “You’re here too early. No one’s back yet.”

“And leaving you kooky kids alone at home? Someone has to watch you guys.” Wade chirps, hopping back to sit on the table this time. “Me and Doctor Robotnik here figured we would babysit, see, because — “

“Where’s the professor?” Cable interrupts, leaning back on his palms, and Yukio notes the way his fingers nudge Wade’s thigh and doesn’t move.

“Out. Australia. Something happening.” Ellie replies simply, meeting Cable’s dry gaze with her own. “He should be back day after tomorrow. Come back then.”

Cable nods, right as Wade makes a whining noise. “What! We came all the way here for nothing? This is just rude, is what it is. The fucking nerve of the guy. I didn’t even get to eat any of your cereal.”

“You guys broke in without permission and you’re sitting on the table we  _eat_  at.” Ellie points out dryly.

“Tomato, potato.” Wade sniffs, and Cable rolls his eyes, taking Wade’s wrist and yanking him to his feet.

“We’ll be going. Thanks. Tell the professor to contact us when he’s back.” Cable says gruffly. Yukio notes how Wade doesn’t even bother to fight against Cable’s hold —  _adjusts,_ in fact, so they’re holding hands instead and oh, oh,  _ohhh_.

“Bye Yukio! Bye Negasonic At The Disco!” Wade chirps as he’s dragged away completely willingly.

“Bye Wade!” Yukio chirps happily, even as Ellie sighs.

A couple of seconds later and she can hear the sound of the main door shutting, and then the sound of a car starting, pulling out, leaving the driveway. She hums, and tears away from Ellie to look out the window as they disappear.

She’s tempted to find out more about this. See how far they are, if they know what they are at all, or if it even needs defining. Wade always loves it when she texts him outdated cat memes, so maybe she can broach the subject later, after she’s done with sparring and she can spare some time to browse through icanhazcheeseburger, and then she can innocently pry into what he and Cable are doing at home, and they sure have gotten close lately, and —

Arms around her waist again. Lips against the nape of her neck, this time. Her thoughts stop and disappear, just like that.

“No one’s home yet,” Ellie whispers in her ear in that voice that makes Yukio’s heart and gut warm, simultaneously smooth and just that little bit nervous, “We can go back to bed.” And  _that_  has marvelous implications.

You know what? Maybe it’s best for Yukio to stick her nose out of this one. There’s no need to really know about it, not if it doesn’t affect anything else, and they seem to be all the better for whatever it is they’re going through. Yukio doesn’t need to peep in. She’s sure if anything major develops in a way that’s important, she’ll find out, sooner or later.

For now she just turns, slides her hands to Ellie’s sides, levels her own gaze and smiles. “I can be convinced.”

 

x.

 

The big moment of realization is, in the end, not quite so big. Or even a realization.

The day goes like this: they finish a job late into the night — for Weasel, not for the world-saving business specifically, and come out of it with only a little light bleeding, some bruising, and a torn shirt. They get their paycheck by breaking into Weasel’s house at four thirty in the morning, demanding it at friendly gunpoint, and come out of it some many, many, many thousands of dollars flusher.

They reach home at five. Wade falls asleep first, face-down on the couch. Nate wipes himself down, and then bodily hauls Wade to his bed, where Wade whines and grabs for Nate until Nate sighs and lies down with him. They fall asleep as the sun rises, and only wake up in the mid-afternoon; Nate finds Wade in the kitchen with no shirt, too-loose sweatpants, a jug full of coffee, and dancing, singing some song from a musical, hips cocked sharp and a little bit gorgeous. Wade doesn’t stop even when Nate walks in and snatches the coffee. Nate makes him shut up by making pancakes and shoving it into his mouth.

They stay in. Clean weapons, mend suits, look through news for the next two and a half hours. Nate makes more coffee in between then and there, and then Wade complains about the lack of snacks in the fridge after he finishes re-stitching his suit. They argue half-assed for fifteen minutes, and then they head out into the evening for groceries.

Nate does all the actual picking and buying. Compares price and quality, and still gets a little overwhelmed by the sheer amount of choice in this century even though he’s been here a little over a year already. Wade makes sure to cut the moments short, by loudly making a nuisance of himself and bumping against Nate every other moment, where Nate grunts and acts like he isn’t secretly grateful. Says yes to the rainbow cereal Wade wants and puts back the ten bottles of edible glitter, and then buys oregano.

They pay, and walk home as the sun breaks like a full yolk in golds and oranges over the horizon, and then by the time they unlock the front door the world has gone dim and soft around the edges outside. Wade laughs like an idiot over something inane as he stumbles taking off his sneakers; Nate chuckles and shakes his head and turns on the lights.

Wade showers while Nate prepares dinner. Mashed potatoes, gravy, chicken roulade —  _feta, oregano, garlic, lemon zest, divide evenly and keep filling away from edges_  — and then sits on the couch to watch the news while the chicken cooks in the oven for the next 5-7 minutes. In the other room, he hears the shower switching off, and louder singing, footsteps.

And then this: Wade’s walking over to him, still humming, still damp around the collar of his white cotton tee, padding soft over to Nate before he slings a leg over and settles into his lap.

Nate doesn’t even think. Just slides his hands up Wade’s thighs, settles on his hips and on the small of Wade’s back, the dip of his spine, like they’ve done this a thousand times. Wade laughs like scarred bells.

“You made dinner,” Wade grins, hands sliding over broad shoulders and resting his arms there. “Chicken?”

“Roulade. Mashed potatoes. Like you wanted.” Nate grunts, thumbing the soft fabric of Wade’s sweatpants. “And I always make dinner.”

“We get it, you’re a domestic wet dream in a hot robo-DILF shell.” Wade hums. His hands stroke the collar of Nate’s shirt, the nape of his neck. Plays with his hair and softly adores when Nate leans into it. “So.”

Nate meets his gaze, plain as oats. “So.”

“I was thinking — “

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

Wade snorts and flicks Nate’s ear; Nate chuckles like it’s nothing. Leans into the touch, when Wade starts stroking Nate’s temple, ear, jawline instead.

“I was thinking about this, smartass. All of this.” Wade says, plain and simple. And then, “How long have we been dating and not realizing it, you think?”

And Nate just. Snorts. _Laughs_ , quiet, into Wade’s collarbone. “ _That’s_  your thought. Really.”

Wade  _tsks_. “Fine, but let’s see how many presents  _you_  get on our anniversary. Spoilers: none, because I have no idea how long we’ve been together, even.”

Nate only chuckles, shaking his head,  _fond fond fond_ , before looking up to say, “Long enough.” His eyes are warm. His hands are warmer. His smile is the warmest of all.

“Fair.” Wade grins, and leans in to meet Nate halfway to where he was already going.

They kiss. It’s hilariously simple. Wade’s hand curls around the nape of Nate’s neck, thumbs the hair and the scars in gentle adoration as his tongue slips to brush Nate’s. One of Nate’s hands move, cupping Wade’s face, stroking the ridges of his skin like fingers tracing the words of a poem. His teeth nip Wade’s lower lip; Wade makes a sound, caught between a soft moan and gentle laughter. It only makes Nate kiss him deeper, trying not to smile too wide while he does and failing. Turns out, it’s a little hard to kiss someone properly when you’re smiling too hard. They also find that neither of them mind.

It’s warm, soft, curiously open mouthed but relatively chaste, considering who they are. What they’re like. It’s like they’ve done this a thousand times. Like they’ve been doing this forever. Like trading warmth, and gentle touches, and laughter — like that’s all been done already, settled, comfortable.  Like they’ve always known, somewhere inside. Falling into step, hands intertwined, best friends and partners and everything in between, a love letter being written without realizing a thing.

It’s good. Better than good.

And then the oven  _dings_  and Nate laughs quiet and beautiful into Wade’s mouth, and Wade makes it a mission to kiss the creases of Nate’s smile ‘til he’s satisfied, and dinner gets a _little_ cold that night, but it’s pretty good, also.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hoo. wow. if anyone told me i'd be writing _anything_ marvel just two months ago, i would've laughed. and yet here i am. i'm not completely satisfied w how i wrote this, but i'm also pretty jazzed about what i managed ! so there's that.
> 
> i should say that i'm a) not american so if some of these american references are off, feel free to let me know so i can fix it and b) no i don't read the comics, i don't really plan to read the comics, please leabe me olone about that. i did minimal research just to get this out there coherently and semi-believably. navigating western superhero comics is very overwhelming !
> 
> mostly just wanted to write it to get it out of my system after that movie, but i may write more if the other plot bunnies decide to attack me monty python style.
> 
> many thanks to [Waggs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hornswaggler/pseuds/Hornswaggler) for beta reading this, and my other friends also for shamelessly enabling me to write this.
> 
> every kudos and comment makes my days a little bit better !! also on [tumblr](keycchan.tumblr.com) if you wanna say hello.


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